The Great Leveller: Best Served Cold, The Heroes and Red Country

by Joe Abercrombie

  She watched him for a long moment. Blue eyes, and cold. Looked at him like she did the first time they met. Like nothing he could do would surprise her. ‘No.’

  ‘Eh?’ Hadn’t been expecting that. Left him disappointed, almost. ‘What, then?’

  ‘You can go.’

  He blinked. ‘I can what?’

  ‘Go. You’re free.’

  ‘Didn’t think you still cared.’

  ‘Who says I ever did? This is for me, not you. I’ve had enough vengeance.’

  Shivers snorted. ‘Well, who’d have fucking thought it? The Butcher of Caprile. The Snake of Talins. The good woman, all along. I thought you didn’t have much use for the right thing. I thought mercy and cowardice were the same.’

  ‘Mark me down a coward, then. That I can live with. Just don’t ever come back here. My cowardice has limits.’ She twisted the ring off her finger. The one with the big, blood-red ruby in it, and tossed it in the dirty straw at his feet. ‘Take it.’

  ‘Alright.’ He bent down and dug it out of the muck, wiped it on his shirt. ‘I ain’t proud.’ Monza turned and walked away, towards the stairway, towards the lamplight spilling from it. ‘So that’s how this ends, is it?’ he called after her. ‘That’s the ending?’

  ‘You think you deserve something better?’ And she was gone.

  He slid the ring onto his little finger and watched it sparkle. ‘Something worse.’

  ‘Move, then, bastard,’ snarled one of the guards, waving a drawn sword.

  Shivers grinned back. ‘Oh, I’m gone, don’t you worry on that score. I’ve had my fill of Styria.’

  He smiled as he stepped out of the darkness of the tunnel and onto the bridge that led away from Fontezarmo. He scratched at his itching face, took in a long breath of cold, free air. All things considered, and well against the run of luck, he reckoned he’d come out alright. Might be he’d lost an eye down here in Styria. Might be he was leaving no richer than when he’d stepped off the boat. But he was a better man, of that he’d no doubt. A wiser man. Used to be he was his own worst enemy. Now he was everyone else’s.

  He was looking forward to getting back to the North, finding some work that suited him. Maybe he’d make a stop in Uffrith, pay his old friend Vossula a little visit. He set off down the mountain, away from the fortress, boots crunching in the grey dust.

  Behind him, the sunrise was the colour of bad blood.

  Acknowledgments

  As always, four people without whom:Bren Abercrombie, whose eyes are sore from reading it.

  Nick Abercrombie, whose ears are sore from hearing about it.

  Rob Abercrombie, whose fingers are sore from turning the pages.

  Lou Abercrombie, whose arms are sore from holding me up.

  Then, my heartfelt thanks:

  To all the lovely and talented folks at my UK Publisher, Gollancz, and their parent Orion, particularly Simon Spanton, Jo Fletcher, Jon Weir, Mark Stay and Jon Wood. Then, of course, all those who’ve helped make, publish, publicise, translate and above all sell my books wherever they may be around the world.

  To the artists responsible for somehow making me look classy: Didier Graffet, Dave Senior and Laura Brett.

  To editors across the Pond: Devi Pillai and Lou Anders.

  To other hard-bitten professionals who’ve provided various mysterious services: Robert Kirby, Darren Turpin, Matthew Amos, Lionel Bolton.

  To all the writers whose paths have crossed mine either electronically or in the actual flesh, and who’ve provided help, laughs and a few ideas worth stealing, including but by no means limited to: James Barclay, Alex Bell, David Devereux, Roger Levy, Tom Lloyd, Joe Mallozzi, John Meaney, Richard Morgan, Adam Roberts, Pat Rothfuss, Marcus Sakey, Wim Stolk and Chris Wooding.

  And lastly, yet firstly:For unstinting support, advice, food, drink and, you know, editing above and beyond the call of duty, my editor, Gillian Redfearn. Long may it continue. I mean, I’m not going to write these damn things on my own . . .

  Contents

  Order of Battle

  BEFORE THE BATTLE

  The Times

  The Peacemaker

  The Best of Us

  Black Dow

  What War?

  Old Hands

  New Hands

  Reachey

  The Right Thing

  DAY ONE

  Silence

  Ambition

  Give and Take

  The Very Model

  Scale

  Ours Not to Reason Why

  Cry Havoc and …

  Devoutly to be Wished

  Casualties

  The Better Part of Valour

  Paths of Glory

  The Day’s Work

  The Defeated

  Fair Treatment

  Tactics

  Rest and Recreation

  DAY TWO

  Dawn

  Opening Remarks

  The Infernal Contraptions

  Reasoned Debate

  Chains of Command

  Closing Arguments

  Straight Edge

  Escape

  The Bridge

  Strange Bedfellows

  Hearts and Minds

  Good Deeds

  One Day More

  Bones

  The King’s Last Hero

  My Land

  DAY THREE

  The Standard Issue

  Shadows

  Under the Wing

  Names

  Still Yesterday

  For What We Are About to Receive …

  The Riddle of the Ground

  Onwards and Upwards

  More Tricks

  The Tyranny of Distance

  Blood

  Pointed Metal

  Peace in Our Time

  The Moment of Truth

  Spoils

  Desperate Measures

  Stuff Happens

  AFTER THE BATTLE

  End of the Road

  By the Sword

  The Currents of History

  Terms

  Family

  New Hands

  Old Hands

  Everyone Serves

  Just Deserts

  Black Calder

  Retired

  Acknowledgements

  For Eve

  One day you will read this

  And say, ‘Dad, why all the swords?’

  Order of Battle

  THE UNION

  High Command

  Lord Marshal Kroy – commander-in-chief of his Majesty’s armies in the North.

  Colonel Felnigg – his chief of staff, a remarkably chinless man.

  Colonel Bremer dan Gorst – royal observer of the Northern War and disgraced master swordsman, formerly the king’s First Guard.

  Rurgen and Younger – his faithful servants, one old, one … younger.

  Bayaz, the First of the Magi – a bald wizard supposedly hundreds of years old and an influential representative of the Closed Council, the king’s closest advisors.

  Yoru Sulfur – his butler, bodyguard and chief bookkeeper.

  Denka and Saurizin – two old Adepti of the University of Adua, academics conducting an experiment for Bayaz.

  Jalenhorm’s Division

  General Jalenhorm – an old friend of the king, fantastically young for his position, described as brave yet prone to blunders.

  Retter – his thirteen-year-old bugler.

  Colonel Vallimir – ambitious commanding officer of the King’s Own First Regiment.

  First Sergeant Forest – chief non-commissioned officer with the staff of the First.

  Corporal Tunny – long-serving profiteer, and standard-bearer of the First.

  Troopers Yolk, Klige, Worth, and Lederlingen – clueless recruits attached to Tunny as messengers.

  Colonel Wetterlant – punctilious commanding officer of the Sixth Regiment.

  Major Culfer – his panicky second in command.

  Sergeant Gaunt, Private Rose – sol
diers with the Sixth.

  Major Popol – commanding the first battalion of the Rostod Regiment.

  Captain Lasmark – a poor captain with the Rostod Regiment.

  Colonel Vinkler – courageous commanding officer of the Thirteenth Regiment.

  Mitterick’s Division

  General Mitterick – a professional soldier with much chin and little loyalty, described as sharp but reckless.

  Colonel Opker – his chief of staff.

  Lieutenant Dimbik – an unconfident young officer on Mitterick’s staff.

  Meed’s Division

  Lord Governor Meed – an amateur soldier with a neck like a turtle, in peacetime the governor of Angland, described as hating Northmen like a pig hates butchers.

  Colonel Harod dan Brock – an honest and hard-working member of Meed’s staff, the son of a notorious traitor.

  Finree dan Brock – Colonel Brock’s venomously ambitious wife, the daughter of Lord Marshal Kroy.

  Colonel Brint – senior on Meed’s staff, an old friend of the king.

  Aliz dan Brint – Colonel Brint’s naive young wife.

  Captain Hardrick – an officer on Meed’s staff, affecting tight trousers.

  The Dogman’s Loyalists

  The Dogman – Chief of those Northmen fighting with the Union. An old companion of the Bloody-Nine, once a close friend of Black Dow, now his bitter enemy.

  Red-Hat – the Dogman’s Second, who wears a red hood.

  Hardbread – a Named Man of long experience, leading a dozen for the Dogman.

  Redcrow – one of Hardbread’s Carls.

  THE NORTH

  In and Around Skarling’s Chair

  Black Dow – the Protector of the North, or stealer of it, depending on who you ask.

  Splitfoot – his Second, meaning chief bodyguard and arse-licker.

  Ishri – his advisor, a sorceress from the desert South, and sworn enemy of Bayaz.

  Caul Shivers – a scarred Named Man with a metal eye, who some call Black Dow’s dog.

  Curnden Craw – a Named Man thought of as a straight edge, once Second to Rudd Threetrees, then close to Bethod, now leading a dozen for Black Dow.

  Wonderful – his long-suffering Second.

  Whirrun of Bligh – a famous hero from the utmost North, who wields the Father of Swords. Also called Cracknut, on account of his nut being cracked.

  Jolly Yon Cumber, Brack-i-Dayn, Scorry Tiptoe, Agrick, Athroc and Drofd – other members of Craw’s dozen.

  Scale’s Men

  Scale – Bethod’s eldest son, now the least powerful of Dow’s five War Chiefs, strong as a bull, brave as a bull, and with a bull’s brain too.

  Pale-as-Snow – once one of Bethod’s War Chiefs, now Scale’s Second.

  White-Eye Hansul – a Named Man with a blind eye, once Bethod’s herald.

  ‘Prince’ Calder – Bethod’s younger son, an infamous coward and schemer, temporarily exiled for suggesting peace.

  Seff – his pregnant wife, the daughter of Caul Reachey.

  Deep and Shallow – a pair of killers, watching over Calder in the hope of riches.

  Caul Reachey’s Men

  Caul Reachey – one of Dow’s five War Chiefs, an elderly warrior, famously honourable, father to Seff, father-in-law to Calder.

  Brydian Flood – a Named Man formerly a member of Craw’s dozen.

  Beck – a young farmer craving glory on the battlefield, the son of Shama Heartless.

  Reft, Colving, Stodder and Brait – other young lads pressed into service with Beck.

  Glama Golden’s Men

  Glama Golden – one of Dow’s five War Chiefs, intolerably vain, locked in a feud with Cairm Ironhead.

  Sutt Brittle – a famously greedy Named Man. Lightsleep – a Carl in Golden’s employ.

  Cairm Ironhead’s Men

  Cairm Ironhead – one of Dow’s five War Chiefs, notoriously stubborn, locked in a feud with Glama Golden.

  Curly – a stout-hearted scout.

  Irig – an ill-tempered axeman.

  Temper – a foul-mouthed bowman.

  Others

  Brodd Tenways – the most loyal of Dow’s five War Chiefs, ugly as incest. Stranger-Come-Knocking – a giant savage obsessed with civilisation, Chief of all the lands east of the Crinna.

  Back to the Mud (dead, thought dead, or long dead)

  Bethod – the first King of the Northmen, father to Scale and Calder.

  Skarling Hoodless – a legendary hero who once united the North against the Union.

  The Bloody-Nine – once Bethod’s champion, the most feared man in the North, and briefly King of the Northmen before being killed by Black Dow (supposedly).

  Rudd Threetrees – a famously honourable Chief of Uffrith, who fought against Bethod and was beaten in a duel by the Bloody-Nine.

  Forley the Weakest – a notoriously weak fighter, companion to Black Dow and the Dogman, ordered killed by Calder.

  Shama Heartless – a famous champion killed by the Bloody-Nine. Beck’s father.

  ‘Unhappy the land that

  is in need of heroes’

  Bertolt Brecht

  The Times

  ‘Too old for this shit,’ muttered Craw, wincing at the pain in his dodgy knee with every other step. High time he retired. Long past high time. Sat on the porch behind his house with a pipe, smiling at the water as the sun sank down, a day’s honest work behind him. Not that he had a house. But when he got one, it’d be a good one.

  He found his way through a gap in the tumble-down wall, heart banging like a joiner’s mallet. From the long climb up the steep slope, and the wild grass clutching at his boots, and the bullying wind trying to bundle him over. But mostly, if he was honest, from the fear he’d end up getting killed at the top. He’d never laid claim to being a brave man and he’d only got more cowardly with age. Strange thing, that – the fewer years you have to lose the more you fear the losing of ’em. Maybe a man just gets a stock of courage when he’s born, and wears it down with each scrape he gets into.

  Craw had been through a lot of scrapes. And it looked like he was about to snag himself on another.

  He snatched a breather as he finally got to level ground, bent over, rubbing the wind-stung tears from his eyes. Trying to muffle his coughing which only made it louder. The Heroes loomed from the dark ahead, great holes in the night sky where no stars shone, four times man-height or more. Forgotten giants, marooned on their hilltop in the scouring wind. Standing stubborn guard over nothing.

  Craw found himself wondering how much each of those great slabs of rock weighed. Only the dead knew how they’d dragged the bastard things up here. Or who had. Or why. The dead weren’t telling, though, and Craw had no plans on joining ’em just to find out.

  He saw the faintest glow of firelight now, at the stones’ rough edges. Heard the chatter of men’s voices over the wind’s low growl. That brought back the risk he was taking, and a fresh wave of fear washed up with it. But fear’s a healthy thing, long as it makes you think. Rudd Threetrees told him that, long time ago. He’d thought it through, and this was the right thing to do. Or the least wrong thing, anyway. Sometimes that’s the best you can hope for.

  So he took a deep breath, trying to remember how he’d felt when he was young and had no dodgy joints and didn’t care a shit for nothing, picked out a likely gap between two of those big old rocks and strolled through.

  Maybe this had been a sacred place, once upon an ancient day, high magic in these stones, the worst of crimes to wander into the circle uninvited. But if any old Gods took offence they’d no way of showing it. The wind dropped away to a mournful sighing and that was all. Magic was in scarce supply and there wasn’t much sacred either. Those were the times.

  The light shifted on the inside faces of the Heroes, faint orange on pitted stone, splattered with moss, tangled with old bramble and nettle and seeding grass. One was broken off half way up, a couple more had toppled over the centuries, left gaps like missing
teeth in a skull’s grin.

  Craw counted eight men, huddled around their wind-whipped campfire with patched cloaks and worn coats and tattered blankets wrapped tight. Firelight flickered on gaunt, scarred, stubbled and bearded faces. Glinted on the rims of their shields, the blades of their weapons. Lots of weapons. Fair bit younger, in the main, but they didn’t look much different to Craw’s own crew of a night. Probably they weren’t much different. He even thought for a moment one man with his face side-on was Jutlan. Felt that jolt of recognition, the eager greeting ready on his lips. Then he remembered Jutlan was twelve years in the ground, and he’d said the words over his grave.

  Maybe there are only so many faces in the world. You get old enough, you start seeing ’em used again.

  Craw lifted his open hands high, palms forward, doing his best to stop ’em shaking any. ‘Nice evening!’

  The faces snapped around. Hands jerked to weapons. One man snatched up a bow and Craw felt his guts drop, but before he got close to drawing the string the man beside him stuck out an arm and pushed it down.