The Collected Joe Abercrombie (407 page)

‘I don’t think anyone’s arguing you’ve got bones, Calder,’ said Dow. ‘Just sat there behind the wall, did you?’

‘That, and sent to Tenways for help.’

Dow’s eyes slid sideways, glittering with the flames. ‘Well?’

Tenways rubbed blood from under his broken nose. ‘Well what?’

‘Did he send for help?’

‘Spoke to Tenways myself,’ piped up one of Calder’s men. An old boy with a scar down his face and the eye on that side milky white. ‘Told him Scale needed help, but Calder couldn’t go on account of the Southerners across the stream. Told him the whole thing.’

‘And?’

The half-blind old man shrugged. ‘Said he was busy.’

‘Busy?’ whispered Dow, face getting harder’n ever if that was possible. ‘So you just sat there and all, did you?’

‘I can’t just move soon as that bastard tells me to—’

‘You sat on the hill with Skarling’s Finger up your arse and fucking
watched?’
Dow roared. ‘Sat and watched the Southerners have
my bridge
?’ Stabbing at his chest with his thumb.

Tenways flinched back, one eye twitching. ‘There weren’t no Southerners over the river, that’s all lies! Lies like he always tells.’ He pointed across the fire with a shaking finger. ‘Always some fucking excuse, eh, Calder? Always some trick to keep your hands clean! Talk of peace, or talk of treachery, or some kind of bloody talk—’

‘Enough.’ Black Dow’s voice was quiet, but it cut Tenways off dead. ‘I don’t care a runny shit whether there are Union men out west or if there aren’t.’ He crumpled the paper up in his trembling fist and flung it at Calder. ‘I care whether you do as you’re told.’ He took a step towards Tenways, and leaned in close.

‘You won’t be sitting watching tomorrow, no, no, no.’ And he sneered over at Calder. ‘And nor will you, prince of nothing fucking much. Your sitting days are over, the pair o’ you. You two lovers’ll be down there on that wall together. That’s right. Side by side. Arm in arm from dawn to dusk. Making sure this shitcake you’ve cooked up between you don’t start stinking any worse. Doing what I brought you idiots here for – which, in case anyone’s started wondering, is
fighting the fucking Union
!’

‘What if they are across that stream?’ asked Calder. Dow turned towards him, brow furrowed like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘We’re stretched thin as it is, lost a lot of men today and we’re well outnumbered—’

‘It’s a fucking
war
!’ roared Dow, leaping over to him and making everyone shuffle back. ‘Fight the bastards!’ He tore at the air as if he was only just stopping himself from tearing Calder’s face apart with his hands. ‘Or you’re the planner, ain’t you? The great trickster? Trick ’em! You wanted your brother’s place? Then deal with it, you little arsehole, or I’ll find a man who will! And if anyone don’t do his bit tomorrow, anyone with a taste for
sitting out
…’ Black Dow closed his eyes and tipped his face back towards the sky. ‘By the dead, I’ll cut the bloody cross in you. And I’ll hang you. And I’ll burn you. And I’ll make such an end of you the very song of it will turn the bards white. Am I leaving room for doubts?’

‘No,’ said Calder, sullen as a whipped mule.

‘No,’ said Tenways, no happier.

Beck didn’t get the feeling the bad blood between ’em was anywhere near settled, though.

‘Then this is the fucking end o’ this!’ Dow turned, saw one of Tenways’ lads was in his way, grabbed hold of his shirt and flung him cringing onto the ground, then stalked back into the night the way he came.

‘With me,’ Craw hissed in Calder’s ear, then took him under the armpit and marched him off.

Tenways and his boys found their way back to their seats, grumbling, the yellow-haired lad giving Beck a hard look as he went. Time was Beck would’ve given him one back, maybe even a hard word or two to go with it. After the day he’d had he just looked away quick as he could, heart thumping in his ears.

‘Shame. I was enjoying that.’ Whirrun of Bligh pulled his hood back and scrubbed at his flattened hair with his fingernails. ‘What is your name, anyway?’

‘Beck.’ He thought he’d best leave it at just that. ‘Is every day with you lot like this?’

‘No, no, no, lad. Not every day.’ And Whirrun’s pointed face broke into a mad grin. ‘Only a precious few.’

*

Craw had always had rooted suspicions that one day Calder would land him in some right shit, and it seemed this was the day. He marched him down the hillside away from the Heroes, through the cutting wind, gripping him tight by the elbow. He’d spent a good twenty years trying to keep his enemies to a strict few. One afternoon as Dow’s Second and they were sprouting up like saplings in a wet spring, and Brodd Tenways was one he could have very well done without. That man was as ugly inside as out and had a bastard of a memory for slights.

‘What the hell was that?’ He dragged Calder to a halt a good way from fires or prying ears. ‘You could’ve got us all killed!’

‘Scale’s dead. That’s what that was. Because that rotting fucker did nothing, Scale’s dead.’

‘Aye.’ Craw felt himself softening. Stood there for a moment while the wind lashed the long grass against his calves. ‘I’m sorry for that. But adding more corpses ain’t going to help matters. ’Specially not mine.’ He stuck a hand on his ribs, heart thumping away behind ’em. ‘By the dead, I think I might die just o’ the excitement.’

‘I’m going to kill him.’ Calder scowled up towards the fire, and he did seem to have a purpose in him Craw hadn’t seen before. Something that made him put a warning hand on Calder’s chest and gently steer him back.

‘Keep it for tomorrow. Save it for the Union.’

‘Why? My enemies are here. Tenways sat there while Scale died. Sat there and laughed.’

‘And you’re angry because he sat there, or because you did?’ He put his other hand down on Calder’s shoulder. ‘I loved your father, in the end. I love you, like the son I never had. But why the hell is it the pair o’ you always had to take on every fight you were offered? There’ll always be more. I’ll stand by you if I can, you know I will, but there’s other things to think about than just—’

‘Yes, yes.’ Calder slapped Craw’s hands away. ‘Keeping your crew alive, and not sticking your neck out, and doing the right thing, even when it’s the wrong thing—’

Craw grabbed hold of his shoulders again and gave him a shake. ‘I have to keep the peace! I’m in charge o’ Dow’s Carls now, his Second, and I can’t—’

‘You’re what? You’re guarding him?’ Calder’s fingers dug into Craw’s arms, his eyes suddenly wide and bright. Not anger. A kind of eagerness. ‘You’re at his back, with your sword drawn? That’s your job?’ And Craw suddenly saw the pit he’d dug for himself opening under his feet.

‘No, Calder!’ snarled Craw, trying to wriggle free. ‘Shut your—’

Calder kept his grip, dragging him into an awkward hug, and Craw could smell the drink on his breath as he hissed in his ear. ‘You could do it! Put an end to this!’

‘No!’

‘Kill him!’

‘No!’ Craw tore free and shoved him off, hand tight around the grip of his sword. ‘No, you bloody fool!’

Calder looked like he couldn’t understand what Craw was saying. ‘How many men have you killed? That’s what you do for a living. You’re a killer.’

‘I’m a Named Man.’

‘So you’re better at it than most. What’s killing one more? And this time for a purpose! You could stop all this. You don’t even like the bastard!’

‘Don’t matter what I like, Calder! He’s Chief.’

‘He’s Chief now, but stick an axe in his head he’s just mud. No one’ll care a shit then.’

‘I will.’ They watched each other for what felt like a long while, still in the darkness, not much more to see but the gleam of Calder’s eyes in his pale face. They slid down to Craw’s hand, still on the hilt of his sword.

‘Going to kill me?’

‘’Course I’m not.’ Craw straightened, letting his hand drop. ‘But I’ll have to tell Black Dow.’

More silence. Then, ‘Tell him what, exactly?’

‘That you asked me to kill him.’

And another. ‘I don’t think he’ll like that very much.’

‘Nor do I.’

‘I think cutting the bloody cross in me, then hanging me, then burning me, is the least of what he’ll do.’

‘Reckon so. Which is why you’d better run.’

‘Run where?’

‘Wherever you like. I’ll give you a start. I’ll tell him tomorrow. I have to tell him. That’s what Threetrees would’ve done.’ Though Calder hadn’t asked for a reason, and that sounded a particularly lame one right then.

‘Threetrees got killed, you know. For nothing, out in the middle of nowhere.’

‘Don’t matter.’

‘Ever think you should be looking for another man to imitate?’

‘I gave my word.’

‘Killer’s honour, eh? Swear it, did you, on Skarling’s cock, or whatever?’

‘Didn’t have to. I gave my word.’

‘To Black Dow? He tried to have me killed a few nights back, and I’m supposed to sit on my hands waiting for him to do it again? The man’s more treacherous than winter!’

‘Don’t matter. I said yes.’ And by the dead how he wished he hadn’t now.

Calder nodded, little smile at the corner of his mouth. ‘Oh, aye. Gave your word. And good old Craw’s a straight edge, right? No matter who gets cut.’

‘I have to tell him.’

‘But tomorrow.’ Calder backed away, still with that smirk on his face. ‘You’ll give me a start.’ One foot after another, down the hillside. ‘You won’t tell him. I know you, Craw. Raised me from a babe, didn’t you? You’ve got more bones than that. You’re not Black Dow’s dog. Not you.’

‘It ain’t a question of bones, nor dogs neither. I gave my word, and I’ll tell him tomorrow.’

‘No, you won’t.’

‘Yes, I will.’

‘No.’ And Calder’s smirk was gone into the darkness. ‘You won’t.’

Craw stood there for a moment, in the wind, frowning at nothing. Then he gritted his teeth, and pushed his fingers into his hair, bent over and gave a strangled roar of frustration. He hadn’t felt this hollow since Wast Never sold him out and tried to kill him after eight years a friend. Would’ve done it too if it hadn’t been for Whirrun. Wasn’t clear who’d get him out of this particular scrape. Wasn’t clear how anyone could. This time it was him doing the betraying. He’d be doing it to someone whatever he did.

Always do the right thing sounds an easy rule to stick to. But when’s the right thing the wrong thing? That’s the question.

The King’s Last Hero

Y
our August Majesty,

Darkness has finally covered the battlefield. Great gains were made today. Great gains at great cost. I deeply regret to inform you that Lord Governor Meed was killed, fighting with the highest personal courage for your Majesty’s cause alongside many of his staff.

There was bitter combat from dawn to dusk in the town of Osrung. The fence was carried in the morning and the Northmen driven across the river, but they launched a savage counterattack and retook the northern half of the town. Now the water separates the two sides once again.

On the western wing, General Mitterick had better fortune. Twice the Northmen resisted his assaults on the Old Bridge, but on the third attempt they were finally broken and fled to a low wall some distance away over open fields. Mitterick is moving his cavalry across the river, ready for an attack at first light tomorrow. From my tent I can see the standards of your Majesty’s Second and Third Regiments, defiantly displayed on ground held by the Northmen only a few hours ago.

General Jalenhorm, meanwhile, has reorganised his division, augmented by reserves from the levy regiments, and is prepared for an attack upon the Heroes in overwhelming force. I mean to stay close to him tomorrow, witness his success at first hand, and inform your Majesty of Black Dow’s defeat as soon as the stones are recaptured.

I remain your Majesty’s most faithful and unworthy servant,

Bremer dan Gorst, Royal Observer of the Northern War

Gorst held the letter out to Rurgen, clenching his teeth as pain flashed through his shoulder. Everything was hurting. His ribs were even worse than yesterday. His armpit was one great itching graze where the edge of his breastplate had been ground into it. For some reason there was a cut between his shoulder blades just where it was hardest to reach.
Though no doubt I deserve far worse, and probably will get it before we’re done with this worthless valley.

‘Can Younger take this?’ he grunted.

Younger!’ called Rurgen.

‘What?’ from outside.

‘Letter!’

The younger man ducked his head through the tent flap, stretching for it. He winced, had to come a step closer, and Gorst saw that the right side of his face was covered by a large bandage, soaked through with a long brown mark of dried blood.