Chapter 08
by Technomad
Some little while later, Tyrion and I were walking down the path from the Eyrie. If I never saw the place again, it'd be years too soon for me. Even knowing that I was traveling through dangerous country didn't bother me for once. Right then, anywhere at all was better than the sky cells.
We'd been escorted down, through the layers of defenses, and finally turfed out of the Bloody Gate, the outermost walls defending that damned castle, by Ser Lyn. As we'd been herded down and out, I had taken careful note of the fortifications. If I ever came back to the Vale of Arryn, I planned to have my friends with me. Specifically, my friends in the Royal Artillery, and the Sappers. Reducing those works would be an interesting exercise for them, and taking the Vale would be a wonderful way to pay Lysa Arryn out for what she'd put me through.
I wondered just how Dick Burton, and our gracious Queen, would react to the news that I, an accredited envoy of Britain, had been grabbed and falsely imprisoned. Wars had been started over much smaller affronts. And as long as I wasn't expected to be out doing desperate deeds, that suited me right to the ground.
Tyrion waddled along beside me, keeping up well despite his short legs. He'd somehow or other managed to attract the services of a "sell-sword," a man named Bronn, despite keeping his promise to the letter and giving that swine Mord all the gold he'd had on him when we'd been captured. The silver and copper, he had kept, not being a complete naif. When we got to civilisation, being able to buy things would be very valuable; I'm no great hand at petty theft and the laws of Westeros are harsh on such folk.
Mord, the poor fool, had goggled and gaped like a gaffed fish when Tyrion had emptied his purse into his outstretched hands. "And I have more!" Tyrion had assured him. "If you ever get tired of life here, Mord, do come to Casterly Rock, and I'll see you rewarded just as you deserve!" The great gowk had nodded eagerly, clearly planning to do just that. Tyrion had given me a wink that told me a great deal.
We were out of earshot of any Arryn or Tully soldiers, so it was safe to satisfy my curiosity. "I take it, m'lord, that the 'reward' awaiting our dear friend in Casterly Rock isn't quite what he thinks it is?"
Tyrion grinned wickedly at me. "We've some ouiblettes that are barely big enough for a person to fit into; they've been described as being tighter than a suit of clothes. One of those would suit our dear friend perfectly, don't you think?" I had to agree. The thought of Mord, trapped without even room to turn around, screaming his lungs out in the impenetrable dark, was very gratifying.
Bronn spoke up. "It's getting on toward evening, m'lord, Ser Harry," he said. "I wish we could get out of these hills. The mountain tribesmen are almost certainly on our track." Looking about me, I had to agree. The whole place was much too much like Afghanistan for my taste, and my previous acquaintance with the mountain clans had not whetted my appetite for more of the same. We urged our horses on a little faster. Tyrion had insisted that the stablemaster at the Bloody Gate provide us with the best he had in his stables, instead of fobbing us off with whatever swaybacked nags he most wanted to be shed of. I'm rather a judge of horseflesh, and what we'd been given wasn't bad at all. With any luck, they'd hold up until we got to Kings Landing, or Lord Tyrion's father, whichever we ran across first.
That was for the future, though. At the present, our main problem was getting out of those bloody mountains. The trail was steep and treacherous, and more than once, we had to stop and lead our horses; the poor beasts didn't like the footing, not one bit they didn't. Neither did I, but seeing how calmly Tyrion and Bronn dealt with it kept me from whining, at least out loud. I had to keep up a stiff upper lip in front of the Westerosi, however much I wanted to just sit down and howl for a while.
When we had to stop for the night, Tyrion built a fire, despite Bronn and me both pointing out that that would attract every howling barbarian for a hundred miles. Pausing for a second, Tyrion grinned up at us. His expression was pure wickedness. "Oh, I know they're tracking us. I want to get them to come out."
A voice came from the bush: "You have got your wish, little half-man." I nearly jumped out of my skin as the shadows around us coalesced into more hairy barbarians than I'd seen since the last time I came out of the Khyber Pass. At least they weren't attacking us just then, but my mind wanted to jump out of my skull and run around in circles yammering in fear.
Left to my own devices, I'm a peaceable chap, bullying underlings and whipping trollops aside, and would never voluntarily stir from safe, comfortable London. However, I am never left to my own devices for very long, thanks to my reputation for heroics and my sheer bad luck. Over the years, I've confronted every kind of hideous native warrior that my world holds: Sioux and Apache , Dyaks, Malagasys, Zulus, Dahomeyan Amazons…all of them hold a special place in my hierarchy of horribles. But pride of place will always go to the Afghan Pathans.
This lot weren't quite as fearsome as Pathans; for one thing, they hadn't a single firearm. That, alone, made a huge difference; the Pathans are deadly shots with their jezzails. (1) As I looked them over, I noticed that they were as badly equipped as any warriors I'd ever seen. Some of them had nothing but fire-hardened wooden spears, and almost none of them had any armour.
Bronn grabbed for his sword hilt, but then sat back, visibly forcing himself to relax. The mountain men had us, fair and square. Just as Lysa Tully and Catelyn Stark had figured they would, damn them both. I hid my dissolving courage behind a calm front, remembering that when dealing with such folk, a show of fear is fatal.
Tyrion was on his feet, gesturing hospitably. "Come! Sit by our fire! Share our food!" At this, the mountain clansmen laughed harshly and unkindly. Their leader, a man-mountain covered with more hair than I had ever seen on a person, laughed loudest of all and hefted what looked to be a woodsman's axe.
"Your food is ours, little man. Your weapons are ours, your horses are ours. You offer us nothing but what is ours." At this, I wished fervently for my Baby Dragoon, which I had last seen at the inn where I'd been taken. At that moment, the feel of a revolver would have been very comforting, however little good it might have done in the final scrap. "Shagga son of Dolf will cut off your manhood and feed it to the goats!"
That did not sound good. However, Shagga, who turned out to be the hairy mountain, made a gesture as though he were shaving with the edge of his axe, and I relaxed microscopically. While I did not fancy being shaven, with an axe or with a razor, it beat being de-bollocksed by a million miles.
Inside, I was all but melting from fear, hidden as usual behind my fierce outer visage. For some reason, I go red rather than white when frightened, and folk think I'm angry, not afraid. This has saved my life more than once.
Meanwhile, Tyrion was talking. He'd talked us out of the jam at the Eyrie, so I forced myself to subside and let him do what he seemed to do best. Not that Flashy's bad at spinning a tale…the time I convinced Jefferson Davis that I was at the Southern "White House" to fix the lightning rods was a particular triumph (2)…but Tyrion was clearly a past-master at this art. Of course, being a dwarf, he had no other choice but to learn to charm and cozen folk with his words.
"To be sure, it is!" To hear Tyrion, you'd think he was standing in the court at Kings Landing. "And what will you take to let us go our way?"
"Your lives, little half-man," Shagga answered. At this, I slowly reached for the hilt of the sword they'd given me at the Eyrie, the same one with which I'd killed Ser Vardis. It balanced and handled almost like the cavalry sabres I'd first become acquainted with when I bought my commission in the 11th Light Dragoons(3), so long ago. At least when it came to the final scrap I'd have a weapon I could use. I'd have been tempted to run off into the darkness and leave Tyrion and Bronn to their fates, but I knew this sort of savages. They no doubt knew every inch of those hillsides better than they did their wives' backsides, and they'd have taken great pleasure in filleting me for my cowardice.
Tyrion was looking them over as though they were something he was being asked to buy at the market. "Are those the best weapons you can get?" he asked, in a tone of wonder. "My father's smiths shit better steel than that!"
All the mountain men growled. "And who is your father? Come to it, who are you, little half-man?" rumbled Shagga.
"I am Tyrion son of Tywin, of the clan Lannister. This…" pointing to me… "is Ser Harry, of the Flashman clan. And this is Bronn, a sellsword. How much would you like to have fine swords, good armour and good horses?"
"I will cut off your manhood and…" Shagga's rant was halted by a gesture from another clansman.
"No. I would hear him out. The mothers are hungry, the children die, and the knights of the Vale hunt us for sport." His voice was bitter, and I could see that he'd made a good point. Most of the clansmen seemed to agree; even Shagga son of Dolf, although he made a point of grumbling and muttering for a bit before settling down.
Tyrion was watching them keenly. "The lords of the Vale drove you into these mountains," he pointed out. "The lords of the Vale take the food out of your children's mouths. The lords of the Vale hunt you for sport, as though you were animals. The lords of the Vale threw me and Ser Harry, here, into a sky cell and wanted to throw us off a cliff when we'd done nothing to merit it." He paused, sensing that he had his audience eating out of the palm of his hand. "I think it's time for some new lords of the Vale, don't you?"
As he had known it would, that met with general approval. Seizing the moment, Tyrion went on: "My father is rich, and we can equip you to fight against the lords of the Vale on equal terms, instead of having to make do with whatever poor castoffs you can find! No more fire-hardened spears! Real steel weapons and armor! Good horses!"
This made me think uncomfortably for a second or two of the consequences of offering modern weapons to the Pathans, or running guns to the Apache. Even though Lady Lysa deserved the consequences if anyone did, if I were any judge, it'd be the smallfolk in the Vale who paid with their blood and suffering. Lady Lysa would be safe enough, up in that damned Eyrie.
Much I cared, I decided. If Lady Lysa was not available personally, then her smallfolk would just have to take the suffering in her place, and be damned to 'em. Serve them right for having the wrong lords! As long as I was well out of it, others' suffering usually did not matter a fig to me.
Tyrion clearly didn't care, either. Of course, he was a Westerosi nobleman. From my rather limited acquaintance, most of that lot cared less about the smallfolk than we in Britain do about the masses in the slums. It was really quite like India; Rani Lakshmibhai and Queen Jeendan would have felt right at home.
Now that a meeting of minds had been established, the evening turned rather jolly. I'd had some drink in my saddlebags, abstracted from the Eyrie, and soon a bottle was passing around the fire. While Westerosi strongwine was nothing like as strong as good brandy or whiskey, it was very good for taking the edge off things, and soon we were all rather merry, the mountain clansmen more so, since they were much less used to strong drink than Tyrion, Bronn or I.
After a while, we got onto the subject of sport. The mountain men affected to believe that nobody could ride as well as they could. Normally, I'd have kept silence, but the strongwine had affected me more powerfully than I realised, and before I knew it, I was roped into a contest between myself and one of the mountain men, to be held the next morning.
Much earlier than I'd have preferred, I was routed out of my blankets the next day, to be faced by some obnoxiously-cheerful mountaineers, all eager to see the Englishman humiliated. Bronn and Tyrion were also watching. Bronn looked as though he was trying to figure out how to place a bet, while Tyrion looked confident that I could handle whatever the mountain men were about to throw at me.
Two horses were led forth; the one I'd been given to replace the one I'd lost at the inn, and a skittish-looking grey mare. I mounted mine, and one of the mountain men, a chap called Conn son of Coratt, mounted the grey. With a yell, he galloped off, and I followed afterward, breathing deeply to clear the fumes of last night's entertainment from my head.
The game was simple; he who did the most outrageous thing won. Conn son of Coratt had a light spear, and I'd been given a heavier one, apparently a trophy from some unfortunate Vale soldier. While it wasn't quite a lance, any more than the sword on my hip was a proper British sabre, it would do for what I had in mind.
Conn, damn him, was a fine horseman. Not quite up to the standards of the Plains Indians, who are about the finest I know, but well able to handle himself on horseback. He started pulling shines like standing up in the saddle, forcing me to imitate him, and then to do some stunts of my own, like the trick I learned from the Sioux (4) of slipping down and holding on to the side of the horse at full gallop. They do that to conceal themselves and make it harder for enemies to shoot them. Up on the hill, the mountain clansmen, Tyrion and Bronn cheered us on.
Then something unexpected happened. A family of rabbits burst from cover and ran across the path, startling both our horses and forcing us back up into the saddle. And not a second too soon; the next thing I knew, a bloody great boar had emerged, snarling and snorting its rage. He saw us, lowered his head and charged with a squeal of fury.
Conn was in the lead, and before he could do anything, the boar had knocked his horse down, sending him flying through the air to land with a sickening crunch in some bramble bushes. Boars are unpredictable creatures; this one, having just savaged his horse with his vicious tusks, this one left Conn alone and turned toward me, pawing the ground with his trotters before breaking into another charge.
Had I had more time to think about what to do, I'd have turned tail and fled, leaving Conn to the boar's tender mercies. Conn was nothing to me, after all, and I didn't have even a proper boar-spear; nobody'd have blamed me.(5) However, I'd been pig-sticking many times in India, and reacted on pure instinct. Clapping spurs to my horse's sides, I charged the boar, lowering my lance to take the brute right where they're vulnerable.
The impact nearly knocked me from my saddle; if I hadn't braced myself the way I'd learnt in India, I'd have been thrown straight back and off, over the horse's crupper, to be as much at that boar's nonexistent mercy as Conn. Instead, I rammed the lance head right on through, skewering that vicious pig from stem to stern in a way that even my most censorious old comrades from the old days in the Raj would have had to approve. Many of those men cared more about proper form killing animals than about leading their men properly…and for too many of them, that had come back to haunt them, when the Mutiny erupted and the same sepoys they had blindly seen as loyal soldiers of the Raj revolted and killed them and their families.
The lance was torn from my hand; the boar weighed several hundred pounds if he was an ounce, and too much of it was muscle and sinew. The shock of impalement had disoriented him, though; he was whirling around, squealing and grunting, trying to get his tusks into whatever was hurting him so. I saw an opportunity, spurred my horse, rode up beside him, and stuck him with my sword, straight in the jugular. He let out an agonized squeal, took a few tottering steps, and finally fell over, kicking and thrashing and dying.
I looked up the hill. Everybody was watching me, silently. Then, as I jammed my sword straight through the brute's eye socket into his brain to make sure he was very dead, they erupted in cheers and yells. "Dinner tonight is on Ser Harry!" came a yell from Bronn. Count on a sellsword to think of that.
Conn was shaken, but unhurt, and exceeding grateful. "Ser Harry! You saved my life!" he stammered. "I…I don't know how to thank you!"
Now that the boar was good and dead, I finally felt safe dismounting. I looked down, all false modesty, and buffed my nails on my shirt front. "All in a normal day's work for an Englishman, old chap," I drawled, as lordly as the Earl of Cardigan himself could have. From the way they all goggled at me, I knew that this feat would not be forgotten soon by anybody who'd seen it, and the credit from it would only do me good. No need to explain to anyone that I'd reacted on pure instinct and reflex, instead of bravery and courage.
[1] The jezzail was a musket used by the tribesmen of Afghanistan and the Northwest Frontier. Often featuring European-made barrels and flintlocks, they were very deadly in the proper hands, and the Afghan and Pathan tribesmen were quite skilled in their use.
[2] The incident where Flashman convinced Jefferson Davis that he was there to fix the lightning rods on the Southern "White House" was during the US Civil War; this particular packet of the Flashman Papers has not yet come to light. During that war, Flashman was a major in the army of the United States and a colonel in the army of the Confederacy.
[3] Flashman started his military career in 1839 by purchasing a commission in the 11th Light Dragoons, a light-cavalry regiment just back from India. After marrying a woman his commander, the notorious Earl of Cardigan, thought insufficiently socially prominent, he was forced to go to India, where he began to acquire his reputation for heroism. Flashman never forgave Cardigan for the affront, and in several other sections of the Flashman Papers, goes out of his way to portray the noble Earl as a stupid martinet. This was how the Earl was seen at the time, so Flashman did not need to reach far for the characterisation.
[4] Flashman had spent time in the American West, and had been, for a while, an adopted member of the Mimbreno Apaches and an acquaintance of such luminaries as Kit Carson, Spotted Tail, and the young Geronimo.
[5] Wild boars are notoriously tough and tenacious of life, and a properly-made boar spear has crossbars below the head, to keep the boar from running right on up the spear and avenging his death on his killer. Flashman was very lucky this time.
