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Unhappy the land that 6 page

‘There’d be a few folk unhappy about that.’

‘True, and half the North’s unhappy as it is. Too much war. Too much tax. War’s got a fine tradition round these parts, o’ course, but tax has never been popular. Dow needs to tread careful on folks’ feelings these days, and he knows it. But it’d be a fool presumed too far on Black Dow’s patience. He ain’t a man made for treading carefully.’

‘But I suppose I am?’

‘There’s no shame in a soft footfall, lad. We like big, stupid men in the North, men who wade about in blood and so on. We sing songs about ’em. But those men get nothing done alone, and that’s a fact. We need the other kind. Thinkers. Like you. Like your father. And we don’t make half way enough of ’em. You want my advice?’

Reachey could stick his advice up his arse as far as Calder was concerned. He’d come for men, and swords, and cold hearts ready to do treachery. But he’d long ago learned that most men love nothing better than to be listened to. Especially powerful men. And Reachey was one of Dow’s five War Chiefs, about as powerful as it got these days. So Calder did what he was best at, and lied. ‘It’s your advice I came for.’

‘Then leave things be. ’Stead o’ swimming out against a fierce current, risking it all in the cold deep, sit on the beach awhile, take your ease. Who knows? Maybe in good time the sea’ll just wash up what you want.’

‘You reckon?’ As far as Calder could tell, the sea had been washing up nothing but shit ever since his father died.

Reachey shuffled a little closer, speaking low. ‘Black Dow ain’t sat too firmly in Skarling’s Chair, for all he carts it around with him. He’s the best bet for most, still, but outside o’ that rotten old fuck Tenways he ain’t got much loyalty. Lot less than your father had, and men these days, the likes of Ironhead and Golden? Pah!’ And he snorted his contempt into the fire. ‘They’re fickle as the wind. Folk fear Black Dow, but that only works long as you’re fearsome, and if things keep dragging on, and he don’t fight … folk got better things to do than sit around here going hungry and shitting in holes. I’ve lost as many men wandering off home to the harvest the last month as I’ll pick up at this weapontake here. Dow has to fight, and soon, and if he don’t, or if he loses, well, everything could spin around in an instant.’ And Reachey took a long, self-satisfied suck at his pipe.

‘And what if he fights the Union and wins?’

‘Well …’ The old man squinted up at the stars as he finished blowing out his latest plume. ‘That is a point you’ve got there. If he wins he’ll be everyone’s hero.’

‘Not mine, I daresay.’ It was Calder’s turn to lean close and whisper. ‘And in the meantime, we’re not on the beach. What if Dow tries to murder me, or gives me some task I can’t but fail at, or puts me in the line somewhere I’m good as dead? Will I have any friends at my back?’

‘You’re my daughter’s husband, better or worse. Me and your father agreed to it when you and Seff weren’t much more’n babies. I was proud to take you when you had the world at your feet. What kind of a man would I be if I turned my back now you’ve got the world on your shoulders? No. You’re family.’ And he showed that missing tooth again, slapping his heavy hand down on Calder’s shoulder. ‘I do things the old way.’



‘Straight edge, eh?’

‘That’s right.’

‘So you’d draw your sword for me?’

‘Shit, no.’ And he gave Calder’s shoulder a parting squeeze and took his hand away. ‘I’m just saying I won’t draw it against you. If I have to burn, I’ll burn, but I ain’t setting myself on fire.’ About what Calder had expected, but still a disappointment. However many life gives you, each new one still stings. ‘Where you going, lad?’

‘I think I’ll meet up with Scale, help him with what’s left of my father’s men.’

‘Good idea. Strong as a bull, your brother, and brave as one with it but, well, might be he’s got a bull’s brain, too.’

‘Might be.’

‘Word’s come from Dow, he’s calling the army together. We’re all marching for Osrung tomorrow morning. Heading for the Heroes.’

‘Guess I’ll catch up with Scale there, then.’

‘And a warming reunion, I don’t doubt.’ Reachey waved a gnarled paw at him. ‘Watch your back, Calder.’

‘That I will,’ he muttered under his breath.

‘And Calder?’

Everyone always had just one more thing to say, and it never seemed to be something nice. ‘Aye?’

‘You get yourself killed, that’s one thing. But my daughter’s stood hostage for you. Done it willingly. I don’t want you doing anything that’s going to bring harm to her or to her child. I won’t stand for that. I’ve told Black Dow and I’m telling you. I won’t stand for it.’

‘You think I will?’ Calder snapped back, with a heat he hadn’t expected. ‘I’m not quite the bastard they say I am.’

‘I know you’re not.’ And Reachey gave him a pointed look from under his craggy brows. ‘Not quite.’

Calder left the fire with worry weighing on his shoulders like a coat of double mail. When the best you can get from your wife’s father is that he won’t help to kill you, it doesn’t take a clever man to see you’re in shit to your chin.

Music was coming from somewhere, old songs badly sung about men long dead and the men they’d killed. Drunken laughter too, figures around the fire-pits, drinking to nothing. A hammer rang from the darkness and Calder caught the shape of the smith, frozen against the sparks of his forge. They’d be working all night arming up Reachey’s new recruits. Blades, axes, arrowheads. The business of destruction. He winced at the shriek of a whetstone. Something about that sound had always set his teeth on edge. He’d never understood what men saw in weapons. Probably a weapontake wasn’t the best place for him, when you thought about it. He stopped, peering into the darkness. Somewhere around here he’d tied his horse—

A boot squelched and he frowned over his shoulder. The shapes of two men, shaggy in the dark, a hint of a stubbly face. Somehow, right away he knew. And right away he took off running.

‘Shit!’

‘Stop him!’

He pounded to nowhere, not thinking about anything, which was a strange relief for a moment, and then, as the first flush of action faded and he realised they were going to kill him … not.

‘Help!’ he screamed at no one. ‘Help me!’

Three men about a fire looked over, part-curious, part-annoyed at being disturbed. None of them so much as reached for weapons. They didn’t care a shit. People don’t, on the whole. They didn’t know who he was, and even if they had he was widely hated, and even if he’d been widely loved, still, on the whole, no one cares a shit.

He left them behind, scared breath starting to burn, slithered down a bank and up another, crashed through a patch of bushes, twigs snatching at him, not caring much about the state of his Styrian boots now as the fear clawed up his throat. He saw a shape looming out of the murk, a pale face, startled.

‘Help!’ he screeched. ‘Help!’

Someone squatting, pinching off a turd. ‘What?’

And Calder was past, thumping through the mud, leaving the fires of Reachey’s camp behind. He snatched a glance over his shoulder, couldn’t see a thing beyond the wobbling black outline of the land. But he could hear them still, too close behind. Far too close. He caught water glimmering at the bottom of a slope, then his lovely Styrian boot toe caught something and he was in the air.

He came down mouth first, crumpled, tumbled, head filled with his own despairing whimpers as the earth battered at him. Slid to what might’ve been a stop though it felt like he was still going. Struggled up, arms clutching at him.

‘Off me, bastards!’ It was his own cloak, heavy with mud. He floundered a half-step, realised he was going up the bank as the killers came down it. He tried to turn and flopped over in the stream, gasping for air, cold water gripping him.

‘Some runner, ain’t he?’ The voice boomed through the surging blood in Calder’s head, a nasty kind of chuckle on the end. Why do they always have to laugh?

‘Oh, aye. Come here.’ That scraping sound as one drew a blade. Calder remembered he had a sword himself, fished numbly for it, trying to struggle up out of the freezing water. He only got as far as his knees. The nearest killer came at him, then fell over sideways.

‘What you doing?’ said the other. Calder wondered if he’d drawn and stabbed him, then realised his sword was still all tangled up with his cloak. He couldn’t have got it free even if he had the strength to move his arm – which, at that moment, he didn’t.

‘What?’ His tongue felt twice its normal size.

A shape flashed from nowhere. Calder gave a kind of squeal, arms jerking pointlessly to cover his face. He felt the wind of something passing, it crashed into the second killer and he went down on his back. The first was trying to crawl away up the bank, making a wet groan. The outline of a man walked down to him, slinging a bow over his shoulder and drawing a sword, and stabbed him through the back without breaking stride. He strolled up close and stood there, a blacker shape in the darkness. Calder stared at him through the spread-out fingers over his face, cold water bubbling at his knees. Thinking of Seff. Waiting for his death.

‘If it ain’t Prince Calder. Wouldn’t expect to chance on you in such surroundings.’

Calder slowly prised his trembling hands away from his face. He knew that voice. ‘Foss Deep?’

‘Yes.’

Relief spouted up in Calder like a fountain, so much he almost wanted to laugh. Laugh or be sick. ‘My brother sent you?’

‘No.’

‘Scale’s busy… busy… busy these days,’ grunted Shallow, still stabbing the second killer, blade squelching in and out.

‘Very busy.’ Deep watched his brother as if he was watching a man dig a ditch. ‘Fighting and so forth. War. The old swords-and-marching game. Loves him some war, Scale, can’t get enough. If that’s not dead yet, by the way, ain’t never going to be.’

‘True.’ Shallow stabbed his man once more then rocked back on his haunches, his blade, and his hand, and his arm to the elbow all sticky black with blood in the moonlight.

Calder made himself not look at it, trying to keep his mind off his rising gorge. ‘Where the hell did you come from?’

Deep offered a hand and Calder took it. ‘We heard you were returned from exile and – aware what a popular boy you are – thought we’d come and stand lookout. Case someone tried something. And whatever do you know …’

Calder held Deep’s forearm a moment longer as the dark world started to steady. ‘Good thing you came when you did. Moment longer I’d have had to kill those bastards myself.’ He stood, the blood rushed to his head, and he doubled up and puked all over his Styrian boots.

‘Things were about to get ugly, all right,’ said Deep solemnly.

‘If you could just’ve got your sword free from your fancy-arsed cloak you’d have cut those bastards up every which way.’ Shallow was coming down the slope and dragging something after him. ‘We caught this one. He was holding their horses.’ And he shoved a shape down in the mud in front of Calder. A young lad, pale face dirt-speckled in the half-light.

‘That’s some good work.’ Calder wiped his sour mouth on the back of his sleeve. ‘My father always said you were two of the best men he knew.’

‘Funny.’ He could see Shallow’s teeth as he grinned. ‘He used to tell us we were the worst.’

‘Either way, don’t know how I’ll thank you.’

‘Gold,’ said Shallow.

‘Aye,’ said Deep. ‘Gold will go most of the way.’

‘You’ll have it.’

‘I know we will. That’s why we love you, Calder.’

‘Well, that and the winning sense of humour,’ said Shallow.

‘And that beautiful face, and those beautiful clothes, and the smirk that makes you want to punch it.’

‘And the bottomless respect we had for your father.’ Shallow gave a little bow. ‘But, yes, mostly it’s the old goldy-woldy.’

‘What rites for the dead?’ asked Deep, poking one of the corpses with the toe of his boot.

Now that Calder’s head was settling, the surging of blood in his ears was quieting, the pounding in his face was dulling to a throb, he was starting to think. To wonder what could be gained. He could show these boys to Reachey, try and get him riled up. Murdering his daughter’s husband in his own camp, it was an insult. Especially to an honourable man. Or he could have them dragged before Black Dow, fling them at his feet and demand justice. But both options held risks, especially when he didn’t know for a fact who was behind it. When you’re planning what to do, always think of doing nothing first, see where that gets you. It was better to let these bastards wash away, pretend it never happened, and keep his enemies guessing.

‘In the river,’ he said.

‘And this one?’ Shallow waved his knife at the lad.

Calder stood over him, lips pursed. ‘Who sent you?’

‘I just mind the horses,’ whispered the boy.

‘Come on, now,’ said Deep, ‘we don’t want to cut you up.’

‘I don’t mind,’ said Shallow.

‘No?’

‘Not bothered.’ He grabbed the boy around the throat and stuck his knife up his nose.

‘No! No!’ he squeaked. ‘Tenways, they said! They said Brodd Tenways!’ Shallow let him drop back in the mud, and Calder gave a sigh.

‘That flaking old fuck.’ How toweringly unsurprising. Maybe Dow had asked him to get it done, or maybe he’d taken his own initiative. Either way, this lad wouldn’t know enough to help.

Shallow spun his knife around, blade flashing moonlight as it turned. ‘And for young master I-just-mind-the-horsey-boy?’

Calder’s instinct was just to say, ‘Kill him,’ and be done. Quicker, simpler, safer. But these days, he tried always to think about mercy. A long time ago when he’d been a young idiot, or perhaps a younger idiot, he’d ordered a man killed on a whim. Because he’d thought it would make him look strong. Because he’d thought it might make his father proud. It hadn’t. ‘Before you make a man into mud,’ his father had told him afterwards in his disappointed voice, ‘make sure he’s no use to you alive. Some men will smash a thing just because they can. They’re too stupid to see that nothing shows more power than mercy.’

The lad swallowed as he looked up, eyes big and hopeless, gleaming in the darkness with maybe a sorry tear or two. Power was what Calder wanted most, and so he thought about mercy. Thought all about it. Then he pressed his tongue into his split lip, and it really hurt a lot.

‘Kill him,’ he said, and turned away, heard the lad make a surprised yelp, quickly cut off. It always catches people by surprise, the moment of their death, even when they should see it coming. They always think they’re special, somehow expect a reprieve. But no one’s special. He heard the splash as Shallow rolled the lad’s body into the water, and that was that. He struggled back up the slope, cursing at his soaked-through, clinging cloak, and his mud-caked boots, and his battered mouth. Calder wondered if he’d be surprised, when his moment came. Probably.

The Right Thing

 

‘Is it true?’ asked Drofd.

‘Eh?’

‘Is it true?’ The lad nodded towards Skarling’s Finger, standing proud on its own tump of hill, casting no more’n a stub of shadow since it was close to midday. ‘That Skarling Hoodless is buried under there?’

‘Doubt it,’ said Craw. ‘Why would he be?’

‘Ain’t that why they call it Skarling’s Finger, though?’

‘What else would they call it?’ asked Wonderful. ‘Skarling’s Cock?’

Brack raised his thick brows. ‘Now you mention it, it does look a bit like a—’

Drofd cut him off. ‘No, I mean, why call it that if he ain’t buried there?’

Wonderful looked at him like he was the biggest idiot in the North. He might’ve been in the running. ‘There’s a stream near my husband’s farm – my farm – they call ‘Skarling’s Beck. There’s probably fifty others in the North. Most likely there’s a legend he wet his manly thirst in their clear waters before some speech or charge or noble stand from the songs. Daresay he did no more’n piss in most of ’em if he ever even came within a day’s ride. That’s what it is to be a hero. Everyone wants a little bit of you.’ She nodded at Whirrun, kneeling before the Father of Swords with hands clasped and eyes closed. ‘In fifty years there’ll more’n likely be a dozen Whirrun’s Becks scattered across farms he never went to, and numbskulls will point at ’em, all dewy-eyed, and ask – ‘‘Is it true Whirrun of Bligh’s buried under that stream?’’’ She walked off, shaking her cropped head.

Drofd’s shoulders slumped. ‘I only bloody asked, didn’t I? I thought that was why they called ’em the Heroes, ’cause there are heroes buried under ’em.’

‘Who cares who’s buried where?’ muttered Craw, thinking about all the men he’d seen buried. ‘Once a man’s in the ground he’s just mud. Mud and stories. And the stories and the men don’t often have much in common.’

Brack nodded. ‘Less with every time the story’s told.’

‘Eh?’

‘Bethod, let’s say,’ said Craw. ‘You’d think to hear the tales he was the most evil bastard ever set foot in the North.’

‘Weren’t he?’

‘All depends on who you ask. His enemies weren’t keen on him, and the dead know he made a lot o’ the bastards. But look at all he did. More’n Skarling Hoodless ever managed. Bound the North together. Built the roads we march on, half the towns. Put an end to the warring between the clans.’

‘By starting wars with the Southerners.’

‘Well, true. There’s two sides to every coin, but there’s my very point. People like simple stories.’ Craw frowned at the pink marks down the edges of his nails. ‘But people ain’t simple.’

Brack slapped Drofd on the back and near made him fall. ‘Except for you, eh, boy?’

‘Craw!’ Wonderful’s voice had that note in it made everyone turn. Craw sprang up, or as close as he got to springing these days, and hurried over to her, wincing as his knee crunched like breaking twigs, sending stings right up into his back.

‘What am I looking at?’ He squinted at the Old Bridge, at the fields and pastures and hedgerows, at the river and the fells beyond, struggling to shield his watery eyes from the wind and make the blurry valley come sharp.

‘Down there, at the ford.’

Now he saw them and his guts hollowed out. Little more’n dots to his eyes, but men for sure. Wading through the shallows, picking their way over the shingle, dragging themselves up onto the bank. The north bank. Craw’s bank.

‘Shit,’ he said. Not enough of ’em to be Union men, but coming from the south, which meant they were the Dogman’s boys. Which meant more’n likely—

‘Hardbread’s back.’ Shivers’ whisper was the last thing Craw needed behind him. ‘And he’s found himself some friends.’

‘Weapons!’ shouted Wonderful.

‘Eh?’ Agrick stood staring with a cookpot in his hands.

‘Weapons, idiot!’

‘Shit!’ Agrick and his brother started running around, shouting at each other, dragging their packs open and spilling gear about the trampled grass.

‘How many do you count?’ Craw patted his pocket but his eyeglass was missing. ‘Where the bloody hell—’

Brack had it pressed to his face. ‘Twenty-two,’ he grunted.

‘You sure?’

‘I’m sure.’

Wonderful rubbed at the long scar down her scalp. ‘Twenty-two. Twenty-two. Twenty … two.’

The more she said it the worse it sounded. A particularly shitty number. Too many to beat without taking a terrible chance, but few enough that – with the ground on their side and a happy fall of the runes – it might be done. Too few to just run away from, without having to tell Black Dow why. And fighting outnumbered might be the lighter risk than telling Black Dow why.

‘Shit.’ Craw glanced across at Shivers and caught his good eye looking back. Knew he’d juggled the same sum and come up with the same answer, but that he didn’t care how much blood got spilled along the way, how many of Craw’s dozen went back to the mud for this hill. Craw did care. Maybe too much, these days. Hardbread and his boys were out of the river now, last of ’em disappearing into the browning apple trees between the shallows and the foot of the hill, heading for the Children.

Yon appeared between two of the Heroes, bundle of sticks in his arms, puffing away from the climb. ‘Took a while, but I found some— What?’

‘Weapons!’ bellowed Brack at him.

‘Hardbread’s back!’ added Athroc.

‘Shit!’ Yon let his sticks fall in a tangle, near tripped over them as he ran for his gear.

It was a bastard of a call and Craw couldn’t dither on it. But that’s what it is to be Chief. If he’d wanted easy choices he could’ve stayed a carpenter, where you might on occasion have to toss out a botched joint but rarely risk a friend’s life.

He’d stuck all his days to the notion there’s a right way to do things, even as it seemed to be going out of fashion. You pick your Chief, you pick your side, you pick your crew and then you stand by ’em, whatever the wind blows up. He’d stood by Threetrees ’til he lost to the Bloody-Nine. Stood by Bethod ’til the end. Now he stood with Black Dow and, whatever the rights and wrongs of it, Black Dow said hold this hill. They were fighters by trade. Time comes a fighter has to toss the runes and fight. It was the right thing to do.

‘The right thing,’ he hissed to himself. Or maybe it was just that, deep under his worries and his grumbles and his blather about sunsets, there was still a jagged little splinter left in him of that man he’d been years ago. That dagger-eyed fucker who would’ve bled all the blood in the North before he backed down a stride. The one who stuck himself in everyone’s craw.

‘Weapons,’ he growled. ‘Full gear! Battle gear!’ Hardly needed saying, really, but a good Chief should shout a lot. Yon was delving into the packhorse’s bags for the mail, dragging Brack’s big coat rattling free. Scorry pulling his spear from the other side, jerking the oilskin from the bright blade, humming to himself while he did it. Wonderful stringing her bow with quick hands, making it sing its own note as she tested it. All the while Whirrun knelt still, eyes closed, hands clasped before the Father of Swords.

‘Chief.’ Scorry tossed Craw’s blade over, stained belt wrapped around it.

‘Thanks.’ Though he didn’t feel too thankful as he snatched it out of the air. Started to buckle it on, memories of other bright, fierce times he’d done it flashing by. Memories of other company, long gone back to the mud. By the dead, but he was getting old.

Drofd stared around for a moment, hands opening and closing. Wonderful gave him a slap on the side of the head as she passed and he came round, started loosening the shafts in his quiver with twitchy fingers.

‘Chief.’ She handed Craw his shield and he slid it onto his arm, strap fitting into his clenched fist snug as a foot into an old boot.

‘Thanks.’ Craw looked over at Shivers, standing still with his arms folded, watching the dozen make ready. ‘How about you, lad? Front rank?’

Shivers tipped his face back, little grin on the side that wasn’t stiff with scar. ‘Front and middle,’ he croaked. Then he ambled off towards the ashes of the fire.

‘We could kill him,’ Wonderful muttered in Craw’s ear. ‘Don’t care how hard he is, arrow in the neck, job done.’

‘He’s just passing the message.’

‘Shooting the messenger ain’t always a bad idea.’ Joking, but only half. ‘Stops him taking messages back.’

‘Whether or not he’s here we’ve the same job. Keep hold o’ the Heroes. We’re meant to be fighters. A little fight shouldn’t get us shitting ourselves.’ He almost choked on the words, since he was mostly shitting himself from morning to night, and especially in fights.

‘A little fight?’ she muttered, loosening her sword in its sheath. ‘Near three to one? Do we really need this hill?’

‘Closer to two to one.’ As if that made it good odds. ‘If the Union do come, this hill’s the key to the whole valley.’ Giving himself reasons as much as her. ‘Better to fight for it now while we’re up here than give it away so we can fight our way up it later. That and it’s the right thing to do.’ She opened her mouth like she was going to argue. ‘The right thing!’ snapped Craw, and held his hand out, not wanting to give her the chance to talk him round.

She took a breath. ‘All right.’ She gave his hand a squeeze, almost painful. ‘We fight.’ And she walked away, pulling her archery guard on with her teeth. ‘Arm up, you bastards! We fight!’

Athroc and Agrick were ready, helmets on, bashing their shields together and grunting in each other’s faces, working themselves up to it. Scorry was holding his spear just under the blade, using it to shave bits of Shudder Root off a lump and into his mouth. Whirrun had finally stood up and now he was smiling into the blue sky with his eyes closed, sun on his face. His preparations didn’t go much beyond taking his coat off.

‘No armour.’ Yon was helping Brack into his mail, shaking his head as he frowned over at Whirrun. ‘What kind of a bloody hero don’t wear bloody armour?’

‘Armour …’ mused Whirrun, licking a finger and scrubbing some speck of dirt from the pommel of his sword, ‘is part of a state of mind … in which you admit the possibility … of being hit.’

‘What the fuck?’ Yon tugged hard at the straps and made Brack grunt. ‘What does that even mean?’

Wonderful clapped her hand down on Whirrun’s shoulder and leaned against him, one foot propped on its boot-toe. ‘How many years and you’re still expecting sense out o’ this article? He’s mad.’

‘We’re all fucking mad, woman!’ Brack was red in the face from holding his breath out while Yon struggled to get the buckles closed at his back. ‘Why else would we be fighting for a hill and some old rocks?’

‘War and madness have a lot in common.’ Scorry, not very helpfully, talking around his cheekful of mush.

Yon finally got the last buckle shut and held his arms out so Brack could start getting him into his mail. ‘Being mad don’t stop you wearing bloody armour, though, does it?’

Hardbread’s crew had made it through the orchards, and two sets of three split from the rest – one heading west around the base of the hill, the other north. Getting around their flanks. Drofd’s eyes were wide as he watched ’em moving, then the others getting their gear ready. ‘How can they make jokes? How can they make bloody jokes?’

‘Because every man finds courage his own way.’ Craw didn’t admit that giving advice was his. There’s nothing better for a dose of terror than standing by someone even more terrified than yourself. He clasped Drofd’s hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘Just breathe, lad.’

Drofd took a shuddering breath in and forced it out. ‘Right y’are, Chief. Breathe.’

Craw turned to face the rest of the crew. ‘Right, then! They’ve two parties of three trying to get on our flanks, then a few less than a score coming up front.’ He rushed through the numbers, maybe hoping no one would notice the odds. Maybe hoping he wouldn’t. ‘Athroc, Agrick, Wonderful to skirmish, Drofd too, give ’em arrows while they climb, spread ’em out on the slope. When they get in close to the stones … we charge.’ He saw Drofd swallow, not much taken with the idea of charging. The dead knew Craw could think of other ways to spend an afternoon himself. ‘There aren’t enough of ’em to get all around us, and we’ve got the ground. We can pick where we hit ’em, and hit ’em hard. Any luck we’ll break ’em before they get set, then if the other six have a mind to fight we can mop up.’

‘Hit ’em hard!’ growled Yon, clasping hands with the others one after another.

‘Just wait for my word, and move together.’

‘Together.’ Wonderful slapped her right hand into Scorry’s and punched him on the arm with her left.

‘Me, Shivers, Brack, Yon, we’re front and centre.’

‘Aye, Chief,’ said Brack, still struggling with Yon’s mail.

‘Fucking aye!’ Yon took a practice swipe with his axe and jerked the buckles out of Brack’s hands.

Shivers grinned and stuck his tongue out, not especially reassuring.

‘Athroc and Agrick fall back to the wings.’

‘Aye,’ they chimed in together.

‘Scorry, anyone tries to get around the side early on, give ’em a poke. Once we close up, you’re the back rank.’

Scorry just hummed to himself, but he’d heard.

‘Whirrun. You’re the nut in the shell.’

‘No.’ Whirrun took the Father of Swords from its place against the stone and lifted it high, pommel glinting with the sunlight. ‘This is. Which makes me … I guess … that kind of… flaky bit between the nut and the shell.’

‘You’re flaky all right,’ muttered Wonderful, under her breath.

‘You can be whatever bit of the nut you like,’ said Craw, ‘long as you’re there when it cracks.’

‘Oh, I’m going nowhere until you show me my destiny.’ Whirrun pushed back his hood and scrubbed a hand through his flattened hair. ‘Just like Shoglig promised me you would.’

Craw sighed. ‘Can’t wait. Questions?’ No sound except the wind fumbling across the grass, the clapping of palms as they all finished shaking hands, the grunt and jingle as Brack finally got Yon’s armour buckled. ‘All right. ’Case I don’t have the chance to say it again, been an honour fighting with you all. Or an honour slogging across the North in all weathers, anyway. Just keep in mind what Rudd Threetrees once told me. Let’s us get them killed, and not the other way round.’


Date: 2015-12-18; view: 588


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