The First Law 03 by Joe Abercrombie

Author:Joe Abercrombie [Abercrombie, Joe]
Language: spa
Format: epub
Tags: Fantástica, The First Law
Published: 2011-04-23T05:00:00+00:00

We'll help you with the Gurkish.'

'What difference can one day make?' asked West.

'Aye,' muttered Dogman, 'what's one day?' Trouble was, he could already guess the answer.

Water trickled under the old bridge, past the trees and off down the green hillside.

Down towards Carleon. Logen watched a few yellow leaves carried on it, turning round and round, dragged past the mossy stones. He wished that he could just float away, but it didn't seem likely.

'We fought here,' said the Dogman. 'Threetrees and Tul, Dow and Grim, and me.

Forley's buried in them woods somewhere.'

'You want to go up there?' asked Logen. 'Give him a visit, see if—'

'What for? I doubt a visit'll do me any good, and I'm damn sure it won't do him any. Nothing will. That's what it is to be dead. You sure about this, Logen?'

'You see another way? The Union won't stick. Might be our last chance to finish with Bethod. Not that much to lose, is there?'

'There's your life.'

Logen took a long breath. 'Can't think of too many people who place much value on that. You coming down?'

Dogman shook his head. 'Reckon I'll stay up here. I had a belly full o' Bethod.'

'Alright then. Alright.' It was as if all the moments of Logen's life, things said and things done, choices he hardly remembered making, had led him to this. Now there was no choice at all. Maybe there never had been. He was like the leaves on the water—carried along, down towards Carleon, and nothing he could do about it. He gave his heels to his horse and off down the slope alone, down the dirt track, beside the gurgling stream.

Everything seemed picked out clearer than usual, as the day wore down. He rode past trees, damp leaves getting ready to fall— golden yellow, burning orange, vivid purple, all the colours of fire. Down towards the valley bottom through the heavy air, just a trace of autumn mist to it, sharp in his throat. The sounds of saddle creaking, harness rattling, hoofbeats in the soft ground all came muffled. He trotted through the empty fields, turned mud pocked with weeds, past the Union pickets, a ditch and a line of sharpened stakes, three times bowshot from the walls. Soldiers there, in studded jackets and steel caps, watched him pass with frowns on their faces.

He pulled on the reins and slowed his horse to a walk. He clattered over a wooden bridge, one of Bethod's new ones, the river underneath surging with the autumn rain. Up the gentle rise, the wall looming over him. High, sheer, dark and solid looking. A threatening piece of wall if ever there'd been one. He couldn't see men at the slots in the battlements, but he guessed they had to be there. He swallowed, spit moving awkward in his throat, then made himself sit up tall, pretending he wasn't cut and aching all over from seven days of battle in the mountains. He wondered if he was about to hear a flatbow click, feel the stab of pain then drop into the mud, dead.

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