Strode the way he thought his father might’ve.
The weapontake weren’t quite what Beck had hoped for.
Rain flitted down, not enough to make anyone wet, really, but enough to make everyone squint and hunch, to damp down the feel of the whole business. And the feel was pretty damn soggy already. Folk who’d come to join up, or been made to come, more likely, stood in things that might’ve started off as rows but had melted into squelching, jostling, grumbling tangles. Most of ’em were young lads, too young for this by Beck’s reckoning. Lads who might never have seen the next valley let alone a battle. Most of the rest were grey with age. A few cripples of one kind or another rounded out the numbers. At the edge of the crowd some of Reachey’s Carls stood leaning on spears or sat mounted, looking every bit as unimpressed by the new recruits as Beck was. All in all, it was a long, low way from the noble band of brothers he’d been hoping to play a hero’s part in.
He shook his head, one fist holding his mother’s cloak tight at his neck, the other underneath it, gripping the warm hilt of his father’s sword. He didn’t belong with this lot. Maybe Skarling Hoodless had started out with an unpromising crowd, and made an army of ’em that beat the Union, but Beck couldn’t see anyone telling high tales about this gathering of the hopeless. At one point he’d seen a new-made crew shambling by and two little lads at the front only had one spear between ’em. A weapontake without enough weapons to go round, you don’t hear much about that in the songs.
For some reason, most likely on account of daydreaming it so often, he’d been half-expecting old Caul Reachey himself to be looking on, a man who’d fought in every battle since whenever, a man who did everything the old way. Maybe catching Beck’s eye or giving him a slap on the back. Here’s the kind o’ lad we need! Everyone look at this lad! Let’s find us some more like him! But there was no sign of Reachey. Or anyone else who knew what they were doing. For a moment he looked at the muddy way he’d come, and gave some hard thought to heading back to the farm. He could be home before dawn—
‘Come to join up?’ A short man but heavy in the shoulder, hair and stubble full of grey, a mace at his belt looked like it had seen some action. He stood with his weight all on one leg, like the other might not take it.
Beck weren’t about to look the fool. He packed away any thoughts of quitting. ‘I’ve come to fight.’
‘Good for you. My name’s Flood, and I’ll be taking charge o’ this little crew when it’s mustered.’ He pointed out an unpromising row of boys, some with worn bows or hatchets, most with nothing but the clothes they stood in and those in a sorry state. ‘You want to do more’n talk about fighting, get in line.’
‘Reckon I will.’ Flood looked like he might know a sword from a sow at least, and one line looked pretty much as bad as another. So Beck swaggered up, chest out, and pushed his way in among the lads at the back. He fair towered over ’em, young as they were. ‘I’m Beck,’ he said.
‘Colving,’ muttered one. Couldn’t have been more’n thirteen and tubby with it, staring about wide-eyed, looking scared of everything.
‘Stodder,’ mumbled around a mouthful of some rotten-looking meat by a hangdog lad with a fat lower lip, wet and dangling like he was touched in the head.
‘I’m Brait,’ piped a boy even smaller’n Colving, ragged as a beggar, dirty toes showing through the end of one split boot. Beck was getting ready to feel sorry for him until he realised how bad he smelled. Brait offered his skinny hand but Beck didn’t take it. He was busy sizing up the last of the group, older’n the others with a bow over his shoulder and a scar through one dark eyebrow. Probably just fell off a wall, but it made him look more dangerous than he’d any right to. Beck wished he had a scar.
‘What about you?’
‘Reft.’ He’d this knowing little grin on his face Beck didn’t much like the look of. Felt right away like he was being laughed at.
‘Something funny?’
Reft waved a hand at the muddle all around ’em. ‘Something not funny?’
‘You laughing at me?’
‘Not everything’s about you, friend.’
Beck weren’t sure if this lad was making him look a fool, or if he was doing it to himself, or if he was just hacked off ’cause none of this matched his hopes, but he was getting angry, and fast. ‘You might want to watch your fucking—’
But Reft weren’t listening. He was looking over Beck’s shoulder, and so were the rest of the lads. Beck turned to see what at, got a shock to find a rider looming over him on a high horse. A good horse with an even better saddle, metal on the harness polished to a neat twinkle. A man of maybe thirty years, by Beck’s guess, clear-skinned and sharp-eyed. He wore a fine cloak with a stitched edge and a rich fur collar, might’ve made Beck shamed of the one his mother had given him if most of the others in the row hadn’t been wearing little better’n rags.
‘Evening.’ The rider’s voice was soft and smooth, the word hardly even sounding like Northern.
‘Evening,’ said Reft.
‘Evening,’ said Beck, no chance he was going to let Reft play at being leader.
The rider smiled down from his fancy saddle, just like they were all old mates together. ‘I don’t suppose you lads could point me to Reachey’s fire?’
Reft stuck a finger into the gathering gloom. ‘Over yonder, I reckon, on that rise there, lee o’ them trees.’ Black outlines against the evening sky, branches lit underneath by firelight.
‘Much obliged to you.’ The man nodded to each of them, even Brait and Colving, then clicked his tongue and nudged his horse through the press, smirk still at the corner of his mouth. Like he’d said something funny. Beck didn’t see what.
‘Who was that bastard?’ he snapped, once the rider was well out of earshot.
‘Don’t know,’ whispered Colving.
Beck curled his lip at the lad. ‘’Course you don’t. Weren’t asking you, was I?’
‘Sorry.’ He flinched like he was expecting a slap. ‘Just saying …’
‘Reckon that was the great Prince Calder,’ said Reft.
Beck’s lip curled further. ‘What, Bethod’s son? Ain’t a prince no more, then, is he?’
‘Reckon he thinks he is.’
‘Married to Reachey’s daughter, ain’t he?’ said Brait in his high little voice. ‘Come to pay respects to his wife’s father, maybe.’
‘Come to try and lie his way back into his father’s chair, judging on his reputation,’ said Reft.
Beck snorted. ‘Don’t reckon he’ll get much change out o’ Black Dow.’
‘Get the bloody cross cut in him for the effort, more’n likely,’ grunted Stodder, licking his fingers as he finished eating.
‘Get hung and burned, I reckon,’ piped up Colving. ‘That’s what he does, Black Dow, wi’ cowards and schemers.’
‘Aye,’ said Brait, as though he was the great expert. ‘Puts the flame to ’em himself and watches ’em dance.’
‘Can’t say I’ll weep any.’ Beck threw a dark glance after Calder, still easing through the press, high above everyone else in his saddle. If there was an opposite of a straight edge it was that bastard. ‘He don’t look much of a fighter.’
‘So?’ Reft’s grin dropped down to the hem of Beck’s cloak where the blunt end of the sword’s sheath showed. ‘You do look a fighter. Don’t necessarily make it so.’
Beck weren’t having that. He twitched his mother’s cloak back over his shoulder to give him room, fists clenched. ‘You calling me a fucking coward?’ Stodder slid carefully out of his way. Colving turned his scared eyes to the ground. Brait just had this helpless little smile.
Reft shrugged, not quite rising to it, but not quite backing down either. ‘Don’t know you well enough to say what y’are. Stood in the line, have you, in battle?’
‘Not in the line,’ snapped Beck, hoping they might think he’d fought a few skirmishes when in fact aside from some bare-handed tussles with boys in the village he’d only
fought trees.
‘Then you don’t know yourself, do you? Never can tell what a man’ll do once the blades are drawn, shoulder to shoulder, waiting for the charge to come. Maybe you’ll stand and fight like Skarling his self. Or maybe you’ll run. Maybe you only talk a good fight.’
‘I’ll show you a fight, you fucker!’ Beck stepped forwards, one fist going up. Colving gave a whimper, covered his face like he was the one might get hit. Reft took a pace back, pulling his coat open with one hand. Beck saw the handle of a long knife there, and he realised when he pushed the cloak back he’d showed the hilt of his father’s sword, and it was right by his hand, and it came to him of a sudden how high the stakes had climbed all out of nothing. It came to him in a flash this might not end up a tussle between boys in the village, and he saw the fear in Reft’s eyes, and the willingness, and the guts dropped out of him, and he faltered for a moment, not knowing how he got here or what he should do—
‘Oy!’ Flood lurched out of the crowd, dragging his bad leg behind him. ‘Enough o’ that!’ Beck slowly let his fist drop, mightily glad of the interruption if he was honest. ‘Good to see you’ve some fire in you, but there’ll be plenty of fight to go round with the Southerners, don’t you worry about that. We got marching to do on the morrow, and you’ll march better without smashed mouths.’ Flood held his big fist up between Beck and Reft, grey hairs on the back, knuckles scuffed from a hundred old scrapes. ‘And that’s what you’ll be getting ’less you behave yourselves, understand?’
‘Aye, Chief,’ growled Beck, giving Reft the eye though his heart was going so hard in his ears he thought it might pop ’em right off.
‘Aye, ’course,’ said Reft, letting his coat fall closed.
‘First thing a fighter has to learn is when not to fight. Now get up there, the pair o’ you.’
Beck realised the row of lads had melted away in front of him and there was just a stretch of trampled mud between him and a table, an awning of dripping canvas over it to keep the rain off. An old greybeard sat there waiting for him, and looking somewhat sour about it. He’d lost an arm, coat-sleeve folded up and stitched across his chest. In the other hand he’d got a pen. Seemed they were taking each man’s name and marking it down in a big book. New ways of doing things, with writing and what have you. Beck didn’t reckon his father would’ve cared much for that, and neither did he. What was the purpose to fighting the Southerners if you took their ways yourselves? He trudged up through the slop, frowning.
‘Name?’
‘My name?’
‘Who the bloody hell else’s?’
‘Beck.’
The greybeard scratched it on his paper. ‘From?’
‘A farm just up the valley there.’
‘Age?’
‘Seventeen year.’
The man frowned up at him. ‘And a big one too. You’re a few summers late, lad. Where you been at?’
‘Helping my mother on the farm.’ Someone behind snorted and Beck whipped around to give him a proper glare. Brait’s sorry little grin wilted, and he looked down at his knackered shoes. ‘She’s two little ’uns to care for, so I stayed to help her. That’s man’s work too.’
‘Guess you’re here now, anyway.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Your father’s name?’
‘Shama Heartless.’
His head jerked right back up at that. ‘Don’t poke me, lad!’
‘I won’t, old man. Shama Heartless was my father. This here is his sword.’ And Beck drew it, metal hissing, the weight in his hand putting heart right back in him, and stood it point-down on the table.
The one-armed old man looked it up and down for a moment, gold glinting with the sunset, mirror-brightness of good steel. ‘Well, there’s a turn-up. Let’s hope you’re forged from the same iron as your father.’
‘I am.’
‘Reckon we’ll see. Here’s your first staple, lad.’ And he pressed a tiny silver coin into Beck’s palm and took up his pen again. ‘Next man.’
And there you go, farmer no more. Joined up with Caul Reachey and ready to fight for Black Dow against the Union. Beck sheathed his sword and stood frowning in the thickening rain, in the gathering darkness. A girl with red hair turned brown by the damp was pouring out grog for those who’d given their names and Beck took his own measure and threw it burning down his gullet. He tossed the cup aside, watching Reft, and Colving, and Stodder give their answers, thinking how it didn’t matter a shit what these fools thought. He’d win his name. He’d show ’em who was the coward.
And who was the hero.
Reachey
‘If it ain’t my daughter’s husband!’ called out Reachey, firelight shining on a gap-toothed grin. ‘No need to tiptoe, lad.’
‘Muddy going,’ said Calder.
‘And you always did like to keep your boots clean.’
‘Styrian leather, shipped in from Talins.’ And he planted one on a stone by the fire so Reachey’s old Named Men could get a better look.
‘Shipping in boots,’ grumbled Reachey, as if bemoaning the loss of all that was good in the world. ‘By the dead. How did a clever girl like my daughter fall for a tailor’s dummy like you?’
‘How did a butcher’s block like you father such a beauty as my wife?’
Reachey grinned, so his men did too, the rustling flames picking out every crease and crinkle on their leathery faces. ‘I’ve always wondered at it myself. Less’n you, though. I knew her mother.’ A couple of the older lads grunted, faraway looks in their eyes. ‘And I was quite the beauty myself before life’s buffets wore down my looks.’ The self-same older lads chuckled. Old men’s jokes, all about how fine things used to be.
‘Buffets,’ said one, shaking his head.
‘Could I have a word?’ asked Calder.
‘Anything for my son. Lads.’ Reachey’s closest stood, some with evident effort, and made their way grunting off into the dark. Calder picked a spot by the fire and squatted down, hands out to the flames.
‘You want the pipe?’ Reachey offered it, smoke curling from the bowl.
‘No, thanks.’ Calder had to keep a straight head, even among supposed friends. It was a damn narrow path he was always treading these days, and he couldn’t afford to weave about. There was a long drop on both sides of it and nothing soft at the bottom.
Reachey took a suck himself, sent up a couple of little brown smoke rings and watched them drift apart. ‘How’s my daughter?’
‘She’s the best woman in the world.’ And he didn’t even have to lie.
‘You always know what to say, don’t you, Calder? I won’t disagree. And my grandson?’
‘Still a little small to help out against the Union this time around, but he’s swelling. You can feel him kick.’
‘Can’t believe it.’ Reachey looked into the flames and slowly shook his head, scrubbing at his white stubble with his fingernails. ‘Me, a grandfather. Hah! Seems like just yesterday I was a child myself. Just this morning I was watching Seff kick at her mother’s belly. It all slips by so fast. Slips by and you hardly notice, like leaves on the water. Savour the little moments, son, that’s my advice. They’re what life is. All the things that happen while you’re waiting for something else. I’ve heard Black Dow wants you dead.’
Calder tried not to show he’d been thrown by the shift of subject and failed. ‘Who says?’
‘Black Dow.’
No great surprise, but hearing it laid out stark as that didn’t help Calder’s shredded spirits. ‘I reckon he’d know.’
‘I think he’s brought you back out here so he can find an easy way to kill you, or so someone else can in hopes of earning favours from him. I think he thinks you’ll start scheming, and turning men against him, and trying to steal his chair. Then he’ll find out about it, and be able to hang you fair, and no one can complain over much.’
‘He thinks if he hands me the knife I’ll stab myself.’
‘Something like that.’
‘Maybe I’m quicker fingered than he reckons.’
‘I hope y’are. All I’m saying is, if you’re planning on hatching a scheme or two, be aware he’s aware, and he’s waiting for you to miss a step. Providing he don’t tire of tiptoeing around the issue and tell Caul Shivers to sharpen his axe on your brains.’
‘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.
The Great Leveller: Best Served Cold, The Heroes and Red Country Page 80
