‘Now look, Shy—’
‘Stop still, I said.’ She drew the bow all the way, string cutting tight into her bloody fingers. ‘You fucking deaf, boy?’
‘Look, Shy, let’s just talk this out, eh? Just talk.’ He held his trembly palm up like that might stop an arrow, his pale blue eyes were fixed on her, and suddenly she got a memory rise up of the first time she met him, leaning back against the livery, smiling free and easy, none too clever but plenty of fun. She’d had a profound lack of fun in her life since she’d left home. You’d never have thought she left home to find it.
‘I know I done wrong, but … I’m an idiot.’ And he tried out a smile, no steadier than his palm. He’d been worth a smile or two, Dodd, at least to begin with, and though no artist of a lover had kept the bed warm, which was something, and made her feel as if she weren’t on her own on one side with the whole rest of the world on the other, which was something more.
‘Stop still,’ she said, but more softly now.
‘You ain’t going to shoot me.’ He kept on edging back towards the well. ‘It’s me, right? Me. Dodd. Just don’t shoot me, now. What I’m going to do is—’
She shot him.
It’s a strange thing about a bow. Stringing it, and drawing it, and nocking the arrow, and taking your aim – all that takes effort, and skill, and a decision. Letting go the string is nothing. You just stop holding it. In fact, once you’ve got it drawn and aimed it’s easier to let fly than not to.
Dodd was no more than a dozen strides distant, and the shaft flitted across the space between them, missed his hand by a whisker and stuck silently into his chest. Surprised her, the lack of a sound. But then flesh is soft. Specially in comparison to an arrowhead. Dodd took one more wobbly pace, like he hadn’t quite caught up with being arrow-stuck yet, his eyes going very wide. Then he blinked down at the shaft.
‘You shot me,’ he whispered, and he sank to his knees, blood already spreading out into his shirt in a dark oval.
‘Didn’t I bloody warn you!’ She flung the bow down, suddenly furious with him and with the bow, too.
He stared at her. ‘But I didn’t think you’d do it.’
She stared back. ‘Neither did I.’ A silent moment, and the wind blew up one more time and stirred the dust around them. ‘Sorry.’
‘Sorry?’ he croaked.
Might’ve been the stupidest thing she’d ever said, and that with some fierce competition, but what else could she say? No words were going to take that arrow out. She gave half a shrug. ‘I guess.’
Dodd winced, hefting the silver in one hand, turning towards the well. Shy’s mouth dropped open and she took off running as he toppled sideways, hauling the bag into the air. It turned over and over, curving up and starting to fall, drawstrings flapping, Shy’s clutching hand straining for it as she sprinted, lunged, fell …
She grunted as her sore ribs slammed into the wall around the well, right arm darting down into the darkness. For a moment she thought she was going in after the bag – which would probably have been a fitting conclusion – then her knees hit the dirt outside.
She had it by one of the bottom corners, loose canvas clutched by broken nails, drawstrings dangling as dirt and bits of loose stone filtered down around it.
Shy smiled. For the first time that day. That month, maybe.
Then the bag came open.
Coins tumbled into the darkness in a twinkling shower, silver pinging and rattling from the earthy walls, disappearing into the inky nothingness, and silence.
She straightened up, numb.
She backed away slowly from the well, hugging herself with one hand while the empty bag hung from the other.
She looked over at Dodd, lying on his back with the arrow sticking straight up from his chest, his wet eyes fixed on her, his ribs going fast. She heard his shallow breaths slow, then stop.
Shy stood there a moment, then doubled over and blew puke onto the ground. Not much of it, since she’d eaten nothing that day, but her guts clenched hard and made sure she retched up what there was. She shook so bad she thought she was going to fall, hands on her knees, sniffing bile from her nose and spluttering it out.
Damn but her ribs hurt. Her arm. Her leg. Her face. So many scrapes, twists and bruises she could hardly tell one from another, her whole body was one overpowering fucking throb.
Her eyes crawled over to Dodd’s corpse. She felt another wave of sickness and forced them away, over to the horizon, fixing them on that shimmering line of nothing.
Not nothing.
There was dust rising in the distance. She wiped her face on her ripped sleeve one more time, so filthy now that it was as like to make her dirtier as cleaner. She straightened, squinting into the haze, hardly able to believe it. Riders. No doubt. A good way off, but as many as a dozen.
‘Oh, hell,’ she whispered, and bit her lip. Things kept going this way she’d soon have chewed right through the bloody thing. ‘Oh, hell!’ And Shy put her hands over her eyes and squeezed them shut and hid in self-inflicted darkness in the desperate hope she might have somehow been mistaken. Would hardly be her first mistake, would it?
But when she took her hands away the dust was still there. The world’s a mean bully, all right, and the lower down you are the more it delights in kicking you. Shy put her hands on her hips, arched her back and screamed up at the sky, the word drawn out as long as her sore lungs would allow.
‘Fuck!’
The echoes clapped from the buildings and died a quick death. No answer came. Perhaps the faint droning of a fly already showing some interest in Dodd. Neary’s horse eyed her for a moment then looked away, profoundly unimpressed. Now Shy had a sore throat to add to her woes. She was obliged to ask herself the usual questions.
What the fuck now?
She clenched her teeth as she hauled Dodd’s boots off and sat in the dust beside him to pull them on. Not the first time they’d stretched out together in the dirt, him and her. First time with him dead, though. His boots were way too loose on her, but a long stride better than no boots at all. She clomped back into the tavern in them.
Neary was making some pitiable groans as he struggled to get up. Shy kicked him in the face and down onto his back, plucked the rest of the arrows from his quiver and took his heavy belt-knife, too. Out into the sun again and she picked up the bow, jammed Dodd’s hat onto her head, also somewhat on the roomy side but at least offering a bit of shade as the sun got up. Then she dragged the three horses together and roped them into a string – quite a ticklish operation since Jeg’s big stallion was a mean bastard and looked determined to kick her brains out.
When she’d got it done she frowned off towards those dust trails. They were headed for the town all right, and fast. With a closer look she reckoned on about nine or ten, which was two or three better than twelve but still an almighty inconvenience.
Bank agents after the stolen money. Bounty hunters looking to collect her price. Other outlaws got wind of a score. A score that was currently in the bottom of a well, as it went. Could be anyone. Shy had an uncanny knack for making enemies. She found she’d looked over at Dodd, face down in the dust with his bare feet limp behind him. The only thing she had worse luck with was friends.
How had it come to this?
She shook her head, spat through the little gap between her front teeth and hauled herself up into the saddle of Dodd’s horse. She faced it away from those impending dust clouds, towards which quarter of the compass she knew not.
Shy gave the horse her heels.
Near Barden, Autumn 584
Tinder stood in his doorway, and watched the Union ruin his crop.
No pleasant pastime, just standing there and watching hours, and days, and months of your dawn-to-dusk hard work and hard worry crushed into the mud. But what were his choices? Charge out there with his pitchfork swinging and chase off the Union on his own? Tinder let out a bitter snort. Black Dow and all his War Chiefs and every Carl and Named Man in t
he wide and barren North were giving that their best effort and having little enough success. Tinder weren’t the fighter he used to be, and he’d never been the hardest around.
So he stood in his doorway, and watched the Union ruin his crop.
First had come the scouts, hooves pounding. Then the soldiers, row upon row of ’em, boots tramping. Then the wagons, creaking and groaning like the dead in hell, wheels ripping up Tinder’s land. Dozens. Hundreds. They’d churned the track to knee-deep slop, then they’d spilled off it and onto the verge and churned that to slop, then they’d spilled off that and into his crops and made slop of an ever-widening strip of them, too.
There’s war for you. You start with something worth something, you end up with slop.
The morning after the first scouts passed through they’d come for his chickens, a dozen jumpy Union soldiers and a Northman to make ’em understood. Tinder understood well enough without words. He knew when he was being robbed. The Northman had looked sorry about it, but a sorry look was all he’d got in trade. What could you do, though? Tinder was no hero. He’d been to war, and he’d seen no heroes there, either.
He gave a long, rough sigh. Probably he deserved it, for the misdeeds of his youth, but deserving it made the thought of a hungry winter no sweeter. He shook his head and spat out into the yard. Bloody Union. Though it was no worse’n when Ironhead and Golden had their last little disagreement, and both came through here robbing whatever they could get their fat hands on. Put a few men with swords together, even men with usually pleasant manners, and it’s never long before they’re all acting like animals. It was like old Threetrees always said – a sword’s a shitty thing to give a man. Shitty for him, and shitty for everyone around him.
‘Are they gone yet?’ asked Riam, creeping up close beside him to peer out, sunlight turning one half of her face white while the other was in shadow. She looked more like her mother with every day.
‘I’ll tell you when they’re gone!’ he growled at her, blocking the door with his body. He’d been on that march, down through Angland with Bethod. He’d done things, and he’d seen things done. Tinder knew how narrow the line was between folk in their house just minding their business and black bones in a burned-out shell. Tinder knew every moment those Union men were at the bottom of his field, him and his children were only just on the right side of that line. ‘Stay inside!’ he called after her as she made sulkily for the back room. ‘And keep the shutters closed!’
When he looked outside again, Cowan was coming around the side of the house, milking pail in one hand, plain as day, just like it was any old morning.
‘You soft in the head, boy?’ Tinder snapped at him as he slipped through the doorway. ‘Thought I told you to stay out o’ sight?’
‘You didn’t say how. They’re crawling everywhere. If they see me creeping they’ll just think we’ve got something to hide.’
‘We have got something to hide! You want ’em to take the goat as well?’
Cowan hung his head. ‘She ain’t giving much.’
Now Tinder felt guilty as well as scared. He reached out and ruffled his son’s hair. ‘No one’s giving much right now. There’s a war on. You just need to keep low and move quick, you hear?’
‘Aye.’
Tinder took the pail from Cowan and put it down beside the door. ‘Get back there with your sister, eh?’ Then he snatched a quick peek around the frame and cursed under his breath.
A Union man was walking up to the house, and one Tinder liked the look of even less than most. Big, with too little neck and too much armour, a long sword sheathed on one side and a shorter on the other. Tinder might not have been the hardest, but he’d seen enough to spot a killer in a crowd, and something in the set of this big man got the back of his neck to tingling.
‘What is it?’ asked Cowan.
‘Just get inside like I told you!’ Tinder slid the hatchet from the table and let it fall down behind his leg, working his fist around the cool, smooth handle, mouth suddenly dry.
He might not be the fighter he once was, and he might never have been the hardest, but a man’s no man who won’t die for his children.
Tinder had been half-expecting the neckless bastard to draw one of those swords and kick the door right down and Tinder along with it. But all he did was take two slow steps up to the porch, Tinder’s poor carpentry creaking under his big boots, and smile. An unconvincing, almost sorry-looking smile, slow to come, like doing it took an effort. Like he was smiling in spite of some burning wound.
‘Hello,’ he said, in Northern. Tinder felt his brows go up. He’d never heard such a strange, high little voice on a man, ’specially one big as this. Closer up his eyes were sad, not fierce. He had a satchel over his shoulder, a golden sun stamped into it.
‘Hello.’ Tinder tried to keep his face slack. Not angry. Not scared. Nothing and nobody. Certainly nobody who needed killing.
‘My name is Gorst.’ Tinder didn’t see a need to reply to that. Like anything else, a name’s a thing you share when you need to. Silence stretched out. An ugly, dangerous silence with the faint bad-tempered calls of men and animals floating over from the bottom of the field. ‘Did I see your son with milk?’
Tinder narrowed his eyes. Here was a tester. Deny what this Gorst had already seen and risk riling him up, maybe put Tinder and his children in deeper danger? Or admit it and risk losing his goat along with all the rest? The Union man shifted in the doorway and the light caught the pommel of one of his swords, brought a steely glint to it.
‘Aye,’ croaked Tinder. ‘A little.’
Gorst reached into his satchel, Tinder’s eye following that big hand all the way, and came out with a wooden cup. ‘Might I trouble you for some?’
Tinder had to put the axe down so he could pick up the bucket, but he didn’t see much choice. Never seemed to have any choice these days, no more’n a leaf on the wind can pick its path. That’s what it is to be ordinary folk with a war at the doorstep, he guessed.
The Union man dipped his cup, held it so a couple of drips fell, then looked up. They looked at each other for a long moment. No anger in the big man’s eyes, or spite, or even much of anything. Tired eyes, and slow, and Tinder swallowed, sure he was looking his death in its face, and far from a pretty face, too. But in the end Gorst only nodded his balding rock of a head towards the trees, where a little smoke from the forge was smudging the iron-grey sky. ‘Can you tell me the name of that village?’
‘It’s called Barden.’ Tinder cleared his croaky throat, desperate to get his hand on the axe again but not sure how he could do it without the big man noticing. ‘Ain’t much there, though.’
‘I was not planning a visit. But thank you.’ The big man looked at him, mouth half-open as though he’d say something more. Then he turned and trudged off, shoulders hunched like he had a great weight on him. Greater even than all the weight of steel he was wearing. He sat down on the stump of that old fir Tinder had a bastard of a time cutting down in the spring. The one that nearly fell on him when he finally got through the trunk.
‘What did he want?’ came Riam’s voice in his ear.
‘By the dead, can’t you stay out of sight?’ Tinder nearly puked on the words, his throat was so tight, struggling to bundle his daughter away from the door with one arm.
But the big man showed no sign of ordering Tinder’s goat seized, or his children, either. He pulled some papers from his satchel, placed them on the wood between his legs, uncorked a bottle of ink, dipped a pen in and wrote something. He took a sip of his milk – or Tinder’s milk, in fact – frowned over towards the trees, then up at the sky, then towards the scarcely moving column of horses and carts, dipped his pen again and wrote something else.
‘What’s he doing?’ whispered Riam.
‘Writing.’ Tinder worked his mouth and spat. It galled him a little, for no good reason, to have some big, sparrow-voiced Union bastard sitting on his stump, writing. What the hell was the use of writing
when the world was so full of problems to be solved? But no doubt there was far worse he might be doing. And what could Tinder do about it anyway?
So he stood there, the mostly empty milking pail still gripped pale-knuckle tight in his fist, and watched the Union ruin his crop.
‘Colonel Gorst?’
‘Yes?’
There was absolutely no getting used to that voice, however much one might admire the man. It was like a lost little girl’s.
‘I’m Lieutenant Kerns. I was on the same ship as you coming over, was it … the Indomitable? The Invincible? The Insomething, anyway.’ Gorst sat in silence, a few sheets of paper spread out on the tree-stump between his legs, ink bottle open beside them, pen held with strange delicacy in one ham of a hand and what looked to be a small cup in the other. ‘I saw you training, more than once, on deck, in the mornings.’ Many of the men had gathered to watch. None of them had ever seen anything like it. ‘A most impressive spectacle. We spoke a little … at one point.’ Kerns supposed that was true in the strictest sense, though it had, in fact, been him who had done virtually all of the speaking.
It was the same routine this time around. Gorst stared up in stony silence all the while, deep-set eyes appraisingly narrowed, and that caused Kerns to start to blather, words coming faster and faster while he said less and less. ‘We talked about the reasons for the conflict, and so forth, and who was along, and who was in the right and wrong of it, and the whys and wherefores, you know.’ By the Fates, why couldn’t he shut up? ‘And how Marshal Kroy would handle the campaign, and which division would fight where, and so forth, you know. I think then, perhaps, we discussed the virtues of Styrian steel as opposed to Union mixtures, for blades and armour, and so on. Then it started to rain, so I retired below decks.’
‘Yes.’
How Kerns wished he could retire below decks now. He cleared his throat. ‘I’m in charge of the guards on this section of the supply column.’ Gorst swept the column with his glare, causing Kerns to cough ashamedly. For all his hard work, its order was hardly something a sensible man would take pride in. ‘Well, I and Lieutenant Pendel are in charge of them, and I saw you here writing, and I thought I might reintroduce myself … I say, is that a letter to the king?’
Sharp Ends: Stories from the World of The First Law Page 16
