She swallowed, and stared down at the floor. 'Collem was with Prince Ladisla, at this battle that everyone is talking of. Some prisoners were taken, have been ransomed—he wasn't among them. They presume…' She paused for a moment, staring at the blood on her dress. 'They presume he was killed.'

'Killed?' Glokta's eyelid fluttered. His knees felt suddenly weak. He took a lurching step back and sank into a chair. His own hands were trembling now, and he clasped them together. Deaths. They happen every day. I caused thousands of them not long ago, with hardly a thought. I looked at heaps of corpses and shrugged. What makes this one so hard to take? And yet it was.

'Killed?' he whispered.

She nodded slowly, and put her face in her hands.

Cold Comfort

Cold Comfort

« ^ »

West peered out of the bushes, through the drifting flakes of snow, down the slope toward the Union picket. The sentries were sat in a rough circle, hunched round a steaming pan over a miserable tongue of fire on the far side of the stream. They wore thick coats, breath smoking, weapons almost forgotten in the snow around them. West knew how they felt. Bethod might come this week, he might come next week, but the cold they had to fight every minute of every day.

'Right then,' whispered Threetrees. 'You'd best go down there on your own. They might not like the looks of me and the rest of the boys, all rushing down on 'em from the trees.'

The Dogman grinned. 'Might shoot one of us.'

'And that'd be some kind o' shame,' hissed Dow, 'after we come so far.'

'Give us the shout when they're good and ready for a crew of Northmen to come wandering out the woods, eh?'

'I will,' said West. He dragged the heavy sword out of his belt and handed it to Threetrees. 'You'd better hold on to this for me.'

'Good luck,' said the Dogman.

'Good luck,' said Dow, lips curling back into his savage grin. 'Furious.'