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

by Joe Abercrombie

  ‘I’ll try to avoid it.’

  Shivers was waiting at the north end of the bridge, offering out Craw’s sword. The sight of his eye gleaming in his lopsided smile was enough to chase any soft feelings away sharp as a rabbit from a hunter.

  ‘You ever thought about a patch?’ asked Craw, as he took his sword and slid it through his belt.

  ‘Tried one for a bit.’ Shivers waved a finger at the mass of scar around his eye. ‘Itched like a bastard. I thought, why wear it just to make other fuckers more comfortable? If I can live with having this face, they can live with looking at it. That or they can get fucked.’

  ‘You’ve a point.’ They walked on through the gathering gloom in silence for a moment. ‘Sorry to take the job.’

  Shivers said nothing.

  ‘Leading Dow’s Carls. More’n likely you should’ve had it.’

  Shivers shrugged. ‘I ain’t greedy. I’ve seen greedy, and it’s a sure way back to the mud. I just want what’s owed. No more and no less. A little respect.’

  ‘Don’t seem too much to ask. Anyway, I’ll only be doing it while the battle’s on, then I’m done. I daresay Dow’ll want you for his Second then.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Another stretch of silence, then Shivers turned to look at him. ‘You’re a decent man, aren’t you, Craw? Folk say so. Say you’re a straight edge. How d’you stick at it?’

  Craw didn’t feel like he’d stuck at it too well at all. ‘Just try to do the right thing, I reckon. That’s all.’

  ‘Why? I tried it. Couldn’t make it root. Couldn’t see the profit in it.’

  ‘There’s your problem. Anything good I done, and the dead know there ain’t much, I done for its own sake. Got to do it because you want to.’

  ‘It ain’t no kind o’ sacrifice if you want to do it, though, is it? How does doing what you want make you a fucking hero? That’s just what I do.’

  Craw could only shrug. ‘I haven’t got the answers. Wish I did.’

  Shivers turned the ring on his little finger thoughtfully round and round, red stone glistening. ‘Guess it’s just about getting through each day.’

  ‘Those are the times.’

  ‘You think other times’ll be any different?’

  ‘We can hope.’

  ‘Craw!’ His own name echoed at him and Craw whipped around, frowning into the darkness, wondering who he’d upset recently. Pretty much everyone, was the answer. He’d made a shitpile of enemies the moment he said yes to Black Dow. His hand strayed to his sword again, which at least was in the sheath this time around. Then he smiled. ‘Flood! I seem to run into men I know all over the damn place.’

  ‘That’s what it is to be an old bastard.’ Flood stepped over with a grin of his own, and a limp of his own too.

  ‘Knew there had to be an upside to it. You know Caul Shivers, do you?’

  ‘By reputation.’

  Shivers showed his teeth. ‘It’s a fucking beauty, ain’t it?’

  ‘How’s the day been over here with Reachey?’ asked Craw.

  ‘It’s been bloody,’ was Flood’s answer. ‘Had a few young lads calling me Chief. Too young. All but one back to the mud.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Me too. But it’s a war. Thought I might come back over to your dozen, if you’ll have me, and I thought I might bring this one with me.’ Flood jerked his thumb at someone else. A big lad, hanging back in the shadows, wrapped up in a stained green cloak. He was looking at the ground, dark hair across his forehead so Craw couldn’t see much more’n the gleam of one eye in the dark. He’d a good sword at his belt, though, gold on the hilt. Craw saw the gleam of that quick enough. ‘He’s a good hand. Earned his name today.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ said Craw.

  The lad didn’t speak. Not full of bragging and vinegar like some might be who’d won a name that day. Like Craw had been the day he won his, for that matter. Craw liked to see it. He didn’t need any fiery tempers landing everyone in the shit. Like his had landed him in the shit, years ago.

  ‘What about it then?’ Flood asked. ‘You got room for us?’

  ‘Room? I can’t remember ever having more’n ten in the dozen, and there’s not but six now.’

  ‘Six? What happened to ’em all?’

  Craw winced .‘About the same as happened to your lot. About what usually happens. Athroc got killed up at the Heroes day before yesterday. Agrick a day later. Brack died this morning.’

  There was a bit of a silence. ‘Brack died?’

  ‘In his sleep,’ said Craw. ‘From a bad leg.’

  ‘Brack’s back to the mud.’ Flood shook his head. ‘That’s a tester. Didn’t think he’d ever die.’

  ‘Nor me. The Great Leveller’s lying in wait for all of us, no doubt, and he takes no excuses and makes no exceptions.’

  ‘None,’ whispered Shivers.

  ‘’Til then, we could certainly use the pair o’ you, if Reachey’ll let you go.’

  Flood nodded. ‘He said he would.’

  ‘All right then. You ought to know Wonderful’s running the dozen for now, though.’

  ‘She is?’

  ‘Aye. Dow offered me charge of his Carls.’

  ‘You’re Black Dow’s Second?’

  ‘Just ’til the battle’s done.’

  Flood puffed out his cheeks. ‘What happened to never sticking your neck out?’

  ‘Didn’t take my own advice. Still want in?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Happy to have you back, then. And your lad too, if you say he’s up to it.’

  ‘Oh, he’s up to it, ain’t you boy?’

  The boy didn’t say a thing.

  ‘What’s your name?’ asked Craw.

  ‘Beck.’

  Flood thumped him on the arm. ‘Red Beck. Best get used to using the whole thing, eh?’

  The lad looked a bit sick, Craw thought. Small wonder, given the state of the town. Must’ve been quite a scrap he’d been through. Quite an introduction to the bloody business. ‘Not much of a talker, eh? Just as well. We got more’n enough talk with Wonderful and Whirrun.’

  ‘Whirrun of Bligh?’ asked the lad.

  ‘That’s right. He’s one of the dozen. Or the half-dozen, leastways. Do you reckon I need to give him the big speech?’ Craw asked Flood. ‘You know, the one I gave you when you joined up, ’bout looking out for your crew and your Chief, and not getting killed, and doing the right thing, and all that?’

  Flood looked at the lad, and shook his head. ‘You know what, I think he learned today the hard way.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Craw. ‘Reckon we all did. Welcome to the dozen, then, Red Beck.’

  The lad just blinked.

  One Day More

  It was the same path she had ridden up the night before. The same winding route up the windswept hillside to the barn where her father had made his headquarters. The same view out over the darkened valley, filled with the pinprick lights of thousands of fires, lamps, torches, all glittering in the wet at the corners of her sore eyes. But everything felt different. Even though Hal was riding beside her, close enough to touch, jawing away to fill the silence, she felt alone.

  ‘… good thing the Dogman turned up when he did, or the whole division might’ve come apart. As it is we lost the northern half of Osrung, but we managed to push the savages back into the woods. Colonel Brint was a rock. Couldn’t have done it without him. He’ll want to ask you … want to ask you about—’

  ‘Later.’ There was no way she could face that. ‘I have to talk to my father.’

  ‘Should you wash first? Change your clothes? At least catch your breath for a—’

  ‘My clothes can wait,’ she snapped at him. ‘I’ve a message from Black Dow, do you understand?’

  ‘Of course. Stupid of me. I’m sorry.’ He kept flipping from fatherly stern to soppy soft, and she could not decide which was annoying her more. She felt as if he was angry, but lacked the courage to say so. At her for coming to the North
when he had wanted her to stay behind. At himself for not being there to help her when the Northmen came. At both of them for not knowing how to help her now. Probably he was angry that he was angry, instead of revelling in her safe return.

  They reined in their horses and he insisted on helping her down. They stood in awkward silence, with an awkward distance between them, he with an awkward hand on her shoulder that offered less than no comfort. She badly wanted him to find some words that might help her see some sense in what had happened that day. But there was no sense in it, and any words would fall pathetically short.

  ‘I love you,’ he said lamely, in the end, and it seemed few words could have fallen as pathetically short as those did.

  ‘I love you too.’ But all she felt was a creeping dread. A sense that there was an awful weight at the back of her mind she was forcing herself not to look at, but that at any moment it might fall and crush her utterly. ‘You should go back down.’

  ‘No! Of course not. I should stay with—’

  She put a firm hand on his chest. She was surprised how firm it was. ‘I’m safe now.’ She nodded towards the valley, its fires prickling at the night. ‘They need you more than I do.’

  She could almost feel the relief coming off him. To no longer be taunted by his inability to make everything better. ‘Well, if you’re sure—’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  She watched him mount up, and he gave her a quick, uncertain, worried smile, and rode away into the gathering darkness. Part of her wished he had fought harder to stay. Part of her was glad to see the back of him.

  She walked to the barn, pulling Hal’s coat tight around her, past a staring guard and into the low-raftered room. It was a much more intimate gathering than last night’s. Generals Mitterick and Jalenhorm, Colonel Felnigg, and her father. For a moment she felt an exhausting sense of relief to see him. Then she noticed Bayaz, sitting slightly removed from the others, his servant occupying the shadows behind him with the faintest of smiles, and any relief died a quick death.

  Mitterick was holding forth, as ever, and, as ever, Felnigg listening with the expression of a man forced to fish something from a latrine. ‘The bridge is in our hands and my men are crossing the river even as we speak. I’ll have fresh regiments on the north bank well before dawn, including plenty of cavalry and the terrain to make use of it. The standards of the Second and Third are flying in the Northmen’s trenches. And tomorrow I’ll get Vallimir off his arse and into action if I have to kick him across that stream myself. I’ll have those Northern bastards on the run by …’

  His eyes drifted over to Finree, and he awkwardly cleared his throat and fell silent. One by one the other officers followed his gaze, and she saw in their faces what a state she must look. They could hardly have appeared more shocked if they had witnessed a corpse clamber from its grave. All except for Bayaz, whose stare was as calculating as ever.

  ‘Finree.’ Her father started up, gathered her in his arms and held her tight. Probably she should have dissolved into grateful tears, but he was the one who ended up dashing something from his eye on one sleeve. ‘I thought maybe …’ He winced as he touched her bloody hair, as though to finish the thought was more than he could bear. ‘Thank the Fates you’re alive.’

  ‘Thank Black Dow. He’s the one who sent me back.’

  ‘Black Dow?’

  ‘Yes. I met him. I spoke to him. He wants to talk. He wants to talk about peace.’ There was a disbelieving silence. ‘I persuaded him to let some wounded men go, as a gesture of good faith. Sixty. It was the best I could do.’

  ‘You persuaded Black Dow to release prisoners?’ Jalenhorm puffed out his cheeks. ‘That’s quite a thing. Burning them is more his style.’

  ‘That’s my girl,’ said her father, and the pride in his voice made her feel sick.

  Bayaz sat forward. ‘Describe him.’

  ‘Tallish. Strong-built. Fierce-looking. He was missing his left ear.’

  ‘Who else was with him?’

  ‘An older man called Craw, who led me back across the river. A big man with a scarred face and … a metal eye. And …’ It seemed so strange now she was starting to wonder whether she had imagined the whole thing. ‘A black-skinned woman.’

  Bayaz’ eyes narrowed, his mouth tightened, and Finree felt the hairs prickling on the back of her neck. ‘A thin, black-skinned woman, wrapped in bandages?’

  She swallowed. ‘Yes.’

  The First of the Magi sat slowly back, and he and his servant exchanged a long glance. ‘They are here.’

  ‘I did say.’

  ‘Can nothing ever be straightforward?’ snapped Bayaz.

  ‘Rarely, sir,’ replied the servant, his different-coloured eyes shifting lazily from Finree, to her father, and back to his master.

  ‘Who are here?’ asked a baffled Mitterick.

  Bayaz did not bother to answer. He was busy watching Finree’s father, who had crossed to his desk and was starting to write. ‘What are you about, Lord Marshal?’

  ‘It seems best that I should write to Black Dow and arrange a meeting so we can discuss the terms of an armistice—’

  ‘No,’ said Bayaz.

  ‘No?’ There was a pregnant silence. ‘But … it sounds as if he is willing to be reasonable. Should we not at least—’

  ‘Black Dow is not a reasonable man. His allies are …’ Bayaz’ lip curled and Finree drew Hal’s coat tight around her shoulders. ‘Even less so. Besides, you have done so well today, Lord Marshal. Such fine work from you, and General Mitterick, and Colonel Brock, and the Dogman. Ground taken and sacrifices made and so on. I feel your men deserve another crack at it tomorrow. Just one more day, I think. What’s one day?’

  Finree found she was feeling awfully weak. Dizzy. Whatever force had been holding her up for the past few hours was ebbing fast.

  ‘Lord Bayaz …’ Her father looked trapped in no-man’s-land between pain and bafflement. ‘A day is just a day. We will strive, of course, with every sinew if that is the king’s pleasure, but there is a very good chance that we will not be able to secure a decisive victory in one day—’

  ‘That would be a question for tomorrow. Every war is only a prelude to talk, Lord Marshal, but it’s all about,’ and the Magus looked up at the ceiling, rubbing one thick thumb against one fingertip, ‘who you talk to. It would be best if we kept news of this among ourselves. Such things can be bad for morale. One more day, if you please.’

  Finree’s father obediently bowed his head, but when he crumpled up his half-written letter in one fist his knuckles were white with force. ‘I serve at his Majesty’s pleasure.’

  ‘So do we all,’ said Jalenhorm. ‘And my men are ready to do their duty! I humbly entreat the right to lead an assault upon the Heroes, and redeem myself on the battlefield.’ As though anyone was redeemed on the battlefield. They were only killed there, as far as Finree could see. Her legs seemed to weigh a ton a piece as she made for the door at the back of the room.

  Mitterick was busy gushing his own military platitudes behind her. ‘My division is champing at the bloody bit, don’t worry on that score, Marshal Kroy! Don’t worry about that, Lord Bayaz!’

  ‘I am not.’

  ‘We have a bridgehead. Tomorrow we’ll drive the bastards, you’ll see. Just one day more …’

  Finree shut the door on their posturing, her back against the wood. Maybe whatever herder had built this barn had lived in this room. Now her father was sleeping there, his bed against one unplastered wall, travelling chests neatly organised against the others like soldiers around a parade ground.

  Everything was painful, suddenly. She pulled the sleeve of Hal’s coat back, grimacing at the long cut down her forearm, flesh angry pink along both sides. Probably it would need stitching, but she could not go back out there. Could not face their pitying expressions and their patriotic drivel. It felt as if her neck had ten strings of agony through it and however she moved her head it tugged at one or another. She touched
her fingertips to her burning scalp. There was a mass of scab under her greasy hair. She could not stop her hand trembling as she took it away. She almost laughed it was shaking so badly, but it came out as an ugly snort. Would her hair grow back? She snorted again. What did it matter, compared to what she had seen? She found she could not stop snorting. Her breath came ragged, and shuddering, and in a moment her aching ribs were heaving with sobs, the quick breath whooping in her throat, her face crushed up and her mouth twisted, tugging at her split lip. She felt a fool, but her body would not let her stop. She slid down the door until her backside hit stone, and bit on her knuckle to smother her blubbering.

  She felt absurd. Worse still, ungrateful. Treacherous. She should have been weeping with joy. She, after all, was the lucky one.

  Bones

  ‘Where’s that scab-faced old cunt hiding?’

  The man’s eyes flickered about uncertainly, caught off balance with his cup frozen half way to the water butt. ‘Tenways is up on the Heroes with Dow and the rest, but if you’re—’

  ‘Get to fuck!’ Calder shoved past him, striding on through Tenways’ puzzled Carls, away from Skarling’s Finger and towards the stones, picked out on their hilltop by the light of campfires behind.

  ‘We won’t be coming along up there,’ came Deep’s voice in his ear. ‘Can’t watch your arse if you’re minded on sticking it in the wolf’s mouth.’

  ‘No money’s worth going back to the mud for,’ said Shallow. ‘Nothing is, in my humble opinion.’

  ‘That’s an interesting point o’ philosophy you’ve stumbled upon,’ said Deep, ‘what’s worth dying for and what ain’t. Not one we’re likely to—’

  ‘Stay and talk shit, then.’ Calder kept walking, uphill, the cold air nipping at his lungs and a few too many nips from Shallow’s flask burning at his belly. The scabbard of his sword slapped against his calf, as if with every step it was gently reminding him it was there, and that it was far from the only blade about either.

  ‘What’re you going to do?’ asked Pale-as-Snow, breathing hard from keeping up.