King of Thorns by Mark Lawrence

your fingers know it and you’ve forgotten the notes.
    My sword arm made its moves without consulting me.
    “Really not bad at all,” he said.
    But when you try to play the piece faster, and then faster still, and quicker again, at some point your fingers falter. What comes next? they want to know. What’s next?
    A heavy metal bar to the side of the head is what’s next, apparently. At least that’s what the flat of his blade felt like. I said something that was half-curse, half-groan, and all blood, then fell over as if he’d cut all my strings.
    “Yield.” It sounded as if he was calling from the far end of a long tunnel.
    “Fuck that.” More blood, possibly some bits of tooth.
    “Last chance, Jorg,” he said. The edge of his sword lay cold against my neck.
    “He yields.” Makin at the far end of the same tunnel. “He yields.”
    “Like hell I do.” The difference between sky and ground had started to reassert itself. I focused on a dark blob that could well be Orrin.
    “Yield,” he said again. Warmth down my neck where blood trickled from his shallow cut.
    I managed a laugh. “You’ve already said you won’t kill me, Prince of Arrow. It’s not in your interest. So why would I yield?” I spat again. “If you ever get to my borders with an army, I’ll decide what to do then.”
    He turned away with a look of disgust.
    “The High Pass,” I said. “I’ll give you free passage to the High Pass and you can bother the earl with your moralizing. You earned that much.” I tried to stand and failed. Makin helped me to my feet.
    We watched them ride on. The brother, Prince Egan, gave me an evil stare as he passed. Orrin didn’t even turn his head.
    We watched until the last horse vanished over the rise.
    “We’re going to need a bigger army,” I said.

 

    Sir Makin is almost the handsome knight of legend, dark locks curling, tall, a swordsman’s build, darkest eyes, his armour always polished, blade keen. Only the thickness of his lips and the sharpness of his nose leave him shy of a maiden’s dream. His mouth too expressive, his look too hawkish. In other matters too Sir Makin is “almost.” Almost honourable, almost honest. About his friendship, though, there is no almost.

7

Four years earlier
    We’d ridden for two hours since the Prince of Arrow left for the High Pass. Two hours in a very different kind of silence to the one that kept us company for the first part of our journey. I had the sort of headache that makes decapitation seem like a good option. Any idiot could tell that it wouldn’t take much for me to make their neck the practice run.
    “Ouch.”
    Well, not every idiot.
    “Yes, Maical,” I said. “Ouch.” I watched him through slitted eyes, teeth tight against the throb in my skull. Sometimes you couldn’t tell old Maical was broken. Whatever piece was missing from him, it didn’t always show. For whole moments at a time he could look ready for anything, tough, dependable, even cunning. And then it came, that weakness about the mouth, the furrowing of the brow, and the empty eyes.
    Maical had found his way back to the Brotherhood within weeks of our victory in the Highlands. Lord knows how, but I suppose even pigeons can find their way home with nothing but a drop of brain in their tiny skulls. In the months since I made the Haunt my home he’d served as stable-boy or assistant to the stable-boy, or dung-collector, orsome such. I made it clear I wanted him fed and given a place to sleep. I’d killed his brother after all. Gemt hadn’t cared much for him. He beat him and set him to both their tasks on the road. But he made sure Maical ate and he made sure he had a place to sleep. “He banged you up, Jorg,” Maical said. He looked stupid when he spoke, lips always wet and glistening.
    I saw Makin wince, Row exchange a bet with Grumlow.
    “Yes, Maical, he surely did.”
    I didn’t feel bad for knifing Gemt. Not for a heartbeat. But it hurt me to think of Maical too