Before They Are Hanged Read Online Free PDF Page A

back. Their losses have been heavy, but losses they can well
afford. The Emperor’s soldiers crawl like ants across the
peninsula. Still, our men are bold, our defences are strong, our
resolve is unshakeable, and Union vessels still ply the bay, keeping
us well supplied. Be assured, Dagoska will not fall.
    On a
subject of lesser importance, you will, no doubt, be pleased to learn
that the issue of Magister Eider has been put to rest. I had
suspended her sentence while I considered the possibility of using
her connection with the Gurkish against them. Unfortunately for her,
the chances of such subtle measures bearing fruit have dropped away,
leaving us with no further use for her. The sight of a woman’s
head decorating the battlements might have been detrimental to the
morale of our troops. We, after all, are the civilised faction. The
one-time Magister of the Guild of Spicers has therefore been dealt
with quietly, but, I can assure you, quite finally. Neither one of us
need spare her, or her failed conspiracy, any further thought.
    As
always, your Eminence, I serve and obey.
    Sand
dan Glokta
    Superior
of Dagoska.
    It was quiet
down by the water. Quiet, and dark, and still. The gentle waves
slapped at the supports of the wharf, the timbers of the boats
creaked softly, a cool breeze washed in off the bay, the dark sea
glittered in the moonlight under a sky dusted with stars.
    You could
never guess that a few short hours ago men were dying in their
hundreds less than half a mile away. That the air was split with
screams of pain and fury. That even now the ruins of two great siege
towers are still smouldering beyond the land walls, corpses scattered
round them like leaves fallen in autumn…
    â€œThhhhh.â€

So This is Pain
    â€œWhere am
I?â€

One Step at a Time
    West gritted his
teeth as he dragged himself up the freezing slope. His fingers were
numb, and weak, and trembling from clawing at the chill earth, the
icy tree roots, the freezing snow for handholds. His lips were
cracked, his nose was endlessly running, the rims of his nostrils
were horribly sore. The very air cut into his throat and nipped at
his lungs, smoked back out in tickling wheezes. He wondered if giving
his coat to Ladisla had been the worst decision of his life. He
decided it probably had been. Except for saving the selfish bastard
in the first place, of course.
    Even when he had
been training for the Contest, five hours a day, he had never
imagined that he could be so tired. Next to Threetrees, Lord Marshal
Varuz seemed an almost laughably soft taskmaster. West was shaken
awake before dawn every morning and scarcely allowed to rest until
after the last light faded. The Northmen were machines, every one of
them. Men carved from wood who never got tired, who felt no pain.
Every one of West’s muscles ached from their merciless pace. He
was covered in bruises and scratches from a hundred falls and
scrambles. His feet were raw and blistered in his wet boots. Then
there was the familiar pulsing in the head, throbbing away to the
rhythm of his laboured heartbeat, mingling unpleasantly with the
burning of the wound on his scalp.
    The cold, the
pain, and the fatigue were bad enough, but still worse was the
overwhelming sense of shame, and guilt, and failure that crushed him
down with every step. He had been sent with Ladisla to make sure
there were no disasters. The result had been a disaster on a scale
almost incomprehensible. An entire division massacred. How many
children without fathers? How many wives without husbands? How many
parents without sons? If only he could have done more, he told
himself for the thousandth time, bunching his bloodless hands into
fists. If only he could have convinced the Prince to stay behind the
river, all those men might not be dead. So many dead. He hardly knew
whether to pity or envy them.
    â€œOne step
at a time,â€

The Rest is Wasted Breath
    Ferro rode, and
watched the land. Still they