The Heroes

by Джо Аберкромби

  ‘Then you’ve reckoned the shit out o’ me,’ said Craw. ‘That’s exactly the plan.’

  ‘My sentries alive?’

  Wonderful turned her head and gave one of her whistles, and Scorry Tiptoe slid out from behind one of the stones. Had his arm around a man with a big pink birthmark on his cheek. Looked almost like two old mates, ’til you saw Scorry’s hand had a blade in it, edge tickling at Birthmark’s throat.

  ‘Sorry, Chief,’ said the prisoner to Hardbread. ‘Caught me off guard.’

  ‘It happens.’

  A scrawny lad came stumbling into the firelight like he’d been shoved hard, tripped over his own feet and sprawled in the long grass with a squawk. Jolly Yon stalked from the darkness behind him, axe held loose in one fist, heavy blade gleaming down by his boot, heavy frown on his bearded face.

  ‘Thank the dead for that.’ Hardbread waved his twig at the lad, just clambering up. ‘My sister’s son. Promised I’d keep an eye out. If you’d killed him I’d never have heard the end of it.’

  ‘He was asleep,’ growled Yon. ‘Weren’t looking out too careful, were you?’

  Hardbread shrugged. ‘Weren’t expecting anyone. If there’s two things we’ve got too much of in the North it’s hills and rocks. Didn’t reckon a hill with rocks on it would be a big draw.’

  ‘It ain’t to me,’ said Craw, ‘but Black Dow said come down here…’

  ‘And when Black Dow says a thing …’ Brack-i-Dayn half-sang the words, that way the hillmen tend to. He stepped into the wide circle of grass, tattooed side of his great big face turned towards the firelight, shadows gathered in the hollows of the other.

  Redcrow made to jump up but Hardbread weighed him down with a pat on the shoulder. ‘My, my. You lot just keep popping up.’ His eyes slid from Jolly Yon’s axe, to Wonderful’s grin, to Brack’s belly, to Scorry’s knife still at his man’s throat. Judging the odds, no doubt, just the way Craw would’ve done. ‘You got Whirrun of Bligh with you?’

  Craw slowly nodded. ‘I don’t know why, but he insists on following me around.’

  Right on cue, Whirrun’s strange valley accent floated from the dark. ‘Shoglig said … I would be shown my destiny … by a man choking on a bone.’ It echoed off the stones, seeming to come from everywhere at once. He’d quite the sense of theatre, Whirrun. Every real hero needs one. ‘And Shoglig is old as these stones. Hell won’t take her, some say. Blade won’t cut her. Saw the world born, some say, and will see it die. That’s a woman a man has to listen to, ain’t it? Or so some say.’

  Whirrun strolled through the gap one of the missing Heroes had left and into the firelight, tall and lean, face in shadow from his hood, patient as winter. He had the Father of Swords across his shoulders like a milkmaid’s yoke, dull grey metal of the hilt all agleam, arms slung over the sheathed blade and his long hands dangling. ‘Shoglig told me the time, and the place, and the manner of my death. She whispered it, and made me swear to keep it secret, for magic shared is no magic at all. So I cannot tell you where it will be, or when, but it is not here, and it is not now.’ He stopped a few paces from the fire. ‘You boys, on the other hand …’ Whirrun’s hooded head tipped to one side, only the end of his sharp nose, and the line of his sharp jaw, and his thin mouth showing. ‘Shoglig didn’t say when you’d be going.’ He didn’t move. He didn’t have to. Wonderful looked at Craw, and rolled her eyes towards the starry sky.

  But Hardbread’s lads hadn’t heard it all a hundred times before. ‘That Whirrun?’ one muttered to his neighbour. ‘Cracknut Whirrun? That’s him?’

  His neighbour said nothing, just the lump on the front of his throat moving as he swallowed.

  ‘Well, my old arse if I’m fighting my way out o’ this,’ said Hardbread, brightly. ‘Any chance you’d let us clear out?’

  ‘I’ve a mind to insist on it,’ said Craw.

  ‘We can take our gear?’

  ‘I’m not looking to embarrass you. I just want your hill.’

  ‘Or Black Dow does, at any rate.’

  ‘Same difference.’

  ‘Then you’re welcome to it.’ Hardbread slowly got to his feet, wincing as he straightened his legs, no doubt cursed with some sticky joints of his own. ‘Windy as anything up here. Rather be down in Osrung, feet near a fire.’ Craw had to admit he’d a point there. Made him wonder who’d got the better end of the deal. Hardbread sheathed his sword, thoughtful, while his lads gathered their gear. ‘This is right decent o’ you, Craw. You’re a straight edge, just like they say. Nice that men on different sides can still talk things through, in the midst of all this. Decent behaviour … it’s out o’ fashion.’

  ‘Those are the times.’ Craw jerked his head at Scorry and he slipped his knife away from Birthmark’s throat, gave this little bow and held his open hand out towards the fire. Birthmark backed off, rubbing at the new-shaved patch on his stubbly neck, and started rolling up a blanket. Craw hooked his thumbs in his sword-belt and kept his eyes on Hardbread’s crew as they made ready to go, just in case anyone had a mind to play hero.

  Redcrow looked most likely. He’d slung his bow over his shoulder and now he was standing there with a black look, an axe in one white-knuckled fist and a shield on his other arm, a red bird painted on it. If he’d been for killing Craw before, didn’t seem the last few minutes had changed his mind. ‘A few old shits and some fucking woman,’ he snarled. ‘We’re backing down to the likes o’ these without a fight?’

  ‘No, no.’ Hardbread slung his own scarred shield onto his back. ‘I’m backing down, and these fellows here. You’re going to stay, and fight Whirrun of Bligh on your own.’

  ‘I’m what?’ Redcrow frowned at Whirrun, twitchy, and Whirrun looked back, what showed of his face still stony as the Heroes themselves.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Hardbread, ‘since you’re itching for a brawl. Then I’m going to cart your hacked-up corpse back to your mummy and tell her not to worry ’cause this is the way you wanted it. You loved this fucking hill so much you just had to die here.’

  Redcrow’s hand worked nervously around his axe handle. ‘Eh?’

  ‘Or maybe you’d rather come down with the rest of us, blessing the name o’ Curnden Craw for giving us a fair warning and letting us go without any arrows in our arses.’

  ‘Right,’ said Redcrow, and turned away, sullen.

  Hardbread puffed his cheeks at Craw. ‘Young ones these days, eh? Were we ever so stupid?’

  Craw shrugged. ‘More’n likely.’

  ‘Can’t say I felt the need for blood like they seem to, though.’

  Craw shrugged again. ‘Those are the times.’

  ‘True, true, and three times true. We’ll leave you the fire, eh? Come on, boys.’ They made for the south side of the hill, still stowing the last of their gear, and one by one faded into the night between the stones.

  Hardbread’s nephew turned in the gap and gave Craw the fuck yourself finger. ‘We’ll be back here, you sneaking bastards!’ His uncle cuffed him across the top of his scratty head. ‘Ow! What?’

  ‘Some respect.’

  ‘Ain’t we fighting a war?’

  Hardbread cuffed him again and made him squeal. ‘No reason to be rude, you little shit.’

  Craw stood there as the lad’s complaints faded into the wind beyond the stones, swallowed sour spit, and eased his thumbs out from his belt. His hands were trembling, had to rub ’em together to hide it, pretending he was cold. But it was done, and everyone involved still drawing breath, so he guessed it had worked out as well as anyone could’ve hoped.

  Jolly Yon didn’t agree. He stepped up beside Craw frowning like thunder and spat into the fire. ‘Time might come we regret not killing those folks there.’

  ‘Not killing don’t tend to weigh as heavy on my conscience as the alternative.’

  Brack tut-tutted from Craw’s other side. ‘A warrior shouldn’t carry too much conscience.’

  ‘A warrior shouldn’t carry too much belly eithe
r.’ Whirrun had shrugged the Father of Swords off his shoulders and stood it on end, the pommel coming up to his neck, watching how the light moved on the crosspiece as he turned it round and round. ‘We all got our weights to heft.’

  ‘I’ve got just the right amount, you stringy bastard.’ And the hillman gave his great gut a proud pat like a father might give his son’s head.

  ‘Chief.’ Agrick strode into the firelight, bow loose in his hand and an arrow dangling between two fingers.

  ‘They away?’ asked Craw.

  ‘Watched ’em down past the Children. They’re crossing the river now, heading towards Osrung. Athroc’s keeping a watch on ’em, though. We’ll know if they double back.’

  ‘You reckon they will?’ asked Wonderful. ‘Hardbread’s cut from the old cloth. He might smile, but he won’t have liked this any. You trust that old bastard?’

  Craw frowned into the night. ‘’Bout as much as I’d trust anyone these days.’

  ‘Little as that? Best post guards.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Brack. ‘And make sure ours stay awake.’

  Craw thumped his arm. ‘Nice o’ you to volunteer for first shift.’

  ‘Your belly can keep you company,’ said Yon.

  Craw thumped his arm next. ‘Glad you’re in favour, you can go second.’

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘Drofd!’

  You could tell the curly lad was the newest of the crew ’cause he actually hurried up with some snap. ‘Aye, Chief?’

  ‘Take the saddle horse and head back up the Yaws Road. Not sure whose lads you’ll meet first — Ironhead’s most likely, or maybe Tenways’. Let ’em know we ran into one of the Dogman’s dozens at the Heroes. More’n likely just scouting, but …’

  ‘Just scouting.’ Wonderful nibbled some scab off one knuckle and spat it from the tip of her tongue. ‘The Union are miles away, split up and spread out, trying to make straight lines out of a country with none.’

  ‘More’n likely. But hop on the horse and pass on the message anyway.’

  ‘Now?’ Drofd’s face was all dismay. ‘In the dark?’

  ‘No, next summer’ll be fine,’ snapped Wonderful. ‘Yes, now, fool, all you’ve got to do is follow a road.’

  Drofd heaved a sigh. ‘Hero’s work.’

  ‘All war work is hero’s work, boy,’ said Craw. He’d rather have sent someone else, but then they’d have been arguing ’til dawn over why the new lad wasn’t going. There are right ways of doing things a man can’t just step around.

  ‘Right y’are, Chief. See you in a few days, I reckon. And with a sore arse, no doubt.’

  ‘Why?’ And Wonderful gave a few thrusts of her hips. ‘Tenways a special friend o’ yours is he?’ That got some laughs. Brack’s big rumble, Scorry’s little chuckle, even Yon’s frown got a touch softer which meant he had to be rightly tickled.

  ‘Ha, bloody ha.’ And Drofd stalked off into the night to find the horse and make a start.

  ‘I hear chicken fat can ease the passage!’ Wonderful called after him, Whirrun’s cackle echoing around the Heroes and off into the empty dark.

  With the excitement over Craw was starting to feel all burned out. He dropped down beside the fire, wincing as his knees bent low, the earth still warm from Hardbread’s rump. Scorry had found a place on the far side, sharpening his knife, the scraping of metal marking the rhythm to his soft, high singing. A song of Skarling Hoodless, greatest hero of the North, who brought the clans together long ago to drive the Union out. Craw sat and listened, chewed at the painful skin around his fingernails and thought about how he really had to stop doing it.

  Whirrun set the Father of Swords down, squatted on his haunches and pulled out the old bag he kept his runes in. ‘Best do a reading, eh?’

  ‘You have to?’ muttered Yon.

  ‘Why? Scared o’ what the signs might tell you?’

  ‘Scared you’ll spout a stack of nonsense and I’ll lie awake half the night trying to make sense of it.’

  ‘Guess we’ll see.’ Whirrun emptied his runes into his cupped hand, spat on ’em then tossed ’em down by the fire.

  Craw couldn’t help craning over to see, though he couldn’t read the damn things for any money. ‘What do the runes say, Cracknut?’

  ‘The runes say …’ Whirrun squinted down like he was trying to pick out something a long way off. ‘There’s going to be blood.’

  Wonderful snorted. ‘They always say that.’

  ‘Aye.’ Whirrun wrapped himself in his coat, nuzzled up against the hilt of his sword like a lover, eyes already shut. ‘But lately they’re right more often than not.’

  Craw frowned around at the Heroes, forgotten giants, standing stubborn guard over nothing. ‘Those are the times,’ he muttered.

  The Peacemaker

  He stood by the window, one hand up on the stone, fingertips drumming, drumming, drumming. Frowning off across Carleon. Across the maze of cobbled streets, the tangle of steep slate roofs, the looming city walls his father built, all turned shiny black by the drizzle. Into the hazy fields beyond, past the fork of the grey river and towards the streaky rumour of hills at the head of the valley. As if, by sulking hard enough, he could see further. Over two score miles of broken country to Black Dow’s scattered army. Where the fate of the North was being decided.

  Without him.

  ‘All I want is just for everyone to do what I tell them. Is that too much to ask?’

  Seff slid up behind him, belly pressing into his back. ‘I’d say it’s no more than good sense on their part.’

  ‘I know what’s best anyway, don’t I?’

  ‘I do, and I tell you what it is, so … yes.’

  ‘It seems there are a few pig-headed bastards in the North who don’t realise we have all the answers.’

  Her hand slipped up his arm and trapped his restless fingers against the stone. ‘Men don’t like to come out for peace, but they will. You’ll see.’

  ‘And until then, like all visionaries, I find myself spurned. Scorned. Exiled.’

  ‘Until then, you find yourself locked in a room with your wife. Is that so bad?’

  ‘There’s nowhere I’d rather be,’ he lied.

  ‘Liar,’ she whispered, lips tickling his ear. ‘You’re almost as much of a liar as they say you are. You’d rather be out there, beside your brother, with your armour on.’ Her hands slid under his armpits and across his chest, giving him a ticklish shiver. ‘Hacking the heads from cartloads of Southerners.’

  ‘Murder is my favourite hobby, as you know.’

  ‘You’ve killed more men than Skarling.’

  ‘And I’d wear my armour to bed if I could.’

  ‘It’s only concern for my soft, soft skin that stops you.’

  ‘But severed heads are prone to squirt.’ He wriggled around to face her and pushed one lazy fingertip into her breastbone. ‘I prefer a quick thrust through the heart.’

  ‘Just like you’ve skewered mine. Aren’t you the swordsman.’

  He squeaked as he felt her hand between his legs and slid away sniggering across the wall, arms up to fend her off. ‘All right, I admit it! I’m more lover than fighter!’

  ‘At last the truth. Only look what you’ve done to me.’ Putting one hand on her stomach and giving him a disapproving frown. It turned into a smile as he came close, slid his hand over hers, fingertips between hers, stroking her swollen belly.

  ‘It’s a boy,’ she whispered. ‘I feel it. An heir to the North. You’ll be king, and then…’

  ‘Shhhhh.’ And he stopped her mouth with a kiss. There was no way of knowing when someone might be listening, and anyway, ‘I’ve got an older brother, remember?’

  ‘A pinhead of an older brother.’

  Calder winced, but didn’t deny it. He sighed as he looked down at that strange, wonderful, frightening belly of hers. ‘My father always said there’s nothing more important than family.’ Except power. ‘Besides, there’s no point arguing over what we don’t ha
ve. Black Dow’s the one who wears my father’s chain. Black Dow’s the one we need to worry on.’

  ‘Black Dow’s nothing but a one-eared thug.’

  ‘A thug with all the North under his boot and its mightiest War Chiefs taking his say-so.’

  ‘Mighty War Chiefs.’ She snorted in his face. ‘Dwarves with big men’s names.’

  ‘Brodd Tenways.’

  ‘That rotten old maggot? Even the thought of him makes me sick.’

  ‘Cairm Ironhead.’

  ‘I hear he has a tiny little prick. That’s why he frowns all the time.’

  ‘Glama Golden.’

  ‘Even tinier. Like a baby’s finger. And you have allies.’

  ‘I do?’

  ‘You know you do. My father likes you.’

  Calder screwed up his face. ‘Your father doesn’t hate me, but I doubt he’ll be leaping up to cut the rope if they hang me.’

  ‘He’s an honourable man.’

  ‘Of course he is. Caul Reachey’s a real straight edge, everyone knows it.’ For what that was worth. ‘But you and I were promised when I was the son of the King of the Northmen and the world was all different. He was getting a prince for a son-in-law, not just a well-known coward.’

  She patted his cheek, hard enough to make a gentle slapping sound. ‘A beautiful coward.’

  ‘Beautiful men are even less well liked in the North than cowardly ones. I’m not sure your father’s happy with the way my luck’s turned.’

  ‘Shit on your luck.’ She took a fistful of his shirt and dragged him closer, much stronger than she looked. ‘I wouldn’t change a thing.’

  ‘Neither would I. I’m just saying your father might.’

  ‘And I’m saying you’re wrong.’ She caught his hand in hers and pressed it against her bulging stomach again. ‘You’re family.’

  ‘Family.’ He didn’t bother saying that family could be as much a weakness as a strength. ‘So we have your honourable father and my pinhead brother. The North is ours.’