The Blade Itself tfl-1

by Joe Abercrombie

  “I know what you deserve, you bastard!”

  “Enough!” growled Threetrees, frowning up at the tree. “Have you no respect? The Dogman’s right. We’re out of the mountains now and there’s trouble brewing. There’ll be no more of this squabbling. No more. Quiet and cold from now on, like the winter-time. We’re Named Men with men’s work to do.”

  Dogman nodded, happy to hear some sense at last. “There’s fighting nearby,” he said, “there has to be.”

  “Uh,” said Grim, though it was hard to say exactly what he was agreeing with.

  Threetrees’ eye was still fixed on the swinging bodies. “You’re right. We need to put our minds on that now. On that and nothing else. We’ll track the crowd as did this and see what they’re fighting for. We’ll do no good until we know who’s fighting who.”

  “Whoever did this fights for Bethod,” said Dow. “You can tell just by the looking.”

  “We’ll see. Tul and Dow, cut these folks down and bury ’em. Maybe that task’ll put some steel back in you.” The two of them scowled at each other, but Threetrees paid ’em no mind. “Dogman, you go and sniff out those as did this. Sniff ’em out, and we’ll pay ’em a visit tonight. A visit like they paid to these folks here.”

  “Aye,” said Dogman, keen to get on and do it. “We’ll pay ’em a visit.”

  The Dogman couldn’t work it out. If they were in a fight these lot, afraid of being caught out by an enemy, they weren’t making too much of an effort to cover their tracks. He followed them simple as could be, five of them he reckoned. Must’ve strolled nice and easy away from the burning farm, down through the valley beside the river and off into the woods. The tracks were so clear he got a little worried time to time, thinking they must be playing some trick on him, watching out there in the trees, waiting to hang him from a branch. Seemed they weren’t though, ’cause he caught up to them just before nightfall.

  First of all he smelled their meat—mutton roasting. Next he heard their voices—talking, shouting, laughing, making not the meanest attempt to stay quiet, easy to hear even with the river bubbling beside. Then he saw them, sitting round a great big fire in a clearing, a sheep’s carcass skinned on a spit above it, taken from those farmers no doubt. The Dogman crouched down in the bushes, nice and still like they should have been. He counted five men, or four and a boy about fourteen years. They were all just sitting, no one standing guard, no caution at all. He couldn’t work it out.

  “They’re just sitting there,” he whispered when he got back to the others. “Just sitting. No guard, no nothing.”

  “Just sitting?” asked Forley.

  “Aye. Five of ’em. Sitting and laughing. I don’t like it.”

  “I don’t like it neither,” said Threetrees, “but I like what I saw at that farm still less.”

  “Weapons,” hissed Dow. “Weapons, it has to be.”

  For once, Tul agreed with him. “Weapons, chief. Let’s give ’em a lesson.”

  Not even Forley spoke up for staying out of a fight this time, but Threetrees thought it out for a bit still, taking his moment, not to be hurried. Then he nodded. “Weapons it is.”

  You won’t see Black Dow in the dark, not if he don’t want to be seen. You won’t hear him neither, but the Dogman knew he was there as he crept down through the trees. You fight with a man for long enough, you get an understanding. You learn how he thinks and you come to think the same way. Dow was there.

  The Dogman had his task. He could see the outline of the one on the far right, his back a black shape against the fire. Dogman didn’t spare too much thought for the others yet. He spared no thought for anything but his task. Once you choose to go, or your chief chooses for you, you go all the way, and never look back ’til the task’s done. The time you spend thinking is the time you’ll get killed in. Logen taught him that and he’d taken it right to heart. That’s the way it has to be.

  Dogman crept closer, and closer still, feeling the warmth of the fire on his face, feeling the hard metal of the knife in his hand. By the dead he needed to piss, as always. The task wasn’t but a stride away now. The boy was facing him—if he’d have looked up fast from his meat he’d have seen the Dogman coming, but he was too busy eating.

  “Gurgh!” shouted one of the others. That meant Dow’d got to him, and that meant he was finished. Dogman leaped forward and stabbed his task in the side of the neck. He reared up for a moment, clutching at his cut throat, took a stumble forward and fell over. One of the others jumped up, dropping his half-chewed leg of mutton on the ground, then an arrow stuck him through the chest. Grim, out by the river. He looked surprised a minute, then he sank down on his knees, face twisted up with pain.

  That left but two, and the boy was still sitting there, staring at the Dogman, mouth half open with a bit of meat hanging out of it. The last of them was stood up, breathing quick, with a long knife in his hand. He must have had it out for eating with.

  “Drop the blade!” bellowed Threetrees. The Dogman saw the old boy now, striding towards them, the firelight catching the metal rim of his big round shield. The man chewed on his lip, eyes flicking from Dogman to Dow as they moved slowly to either side of him. Now he saw the Thunderhead, looming out of the darkness in the trees, seeming too big to be a man, his great huge sword glinting over his shoulder. That was enough for him. He threw his knife down in the dirt.

  Dow jumped forward, grabbed his wrists and tied them tight behind him, then shoved him down on his knees beside the fire. The Dogman did the same with the boy, his teeth clenched tight, not saying a word. The whole thing was done in an instant, quiet and cold like Threetrees said. There was blood on Dogman’s hands, but that was the work and couldn’t be helped. The others were making their way over now. Grim came sloshing through the river, throwing his bow across his shoulder. He gave the one he shot a kick as he came past, but the body didn’t move.

  “Dead,” said Grim. Forley was at the back, peering at the two prisoners. Dow was staring at the one he’d tied, staring at him hard.

  “I know this one ’ere,” he said, sounding quite pleased about it too. “Groa the Mire, ain’t it? What a chance! You’ve been gnawing at the back of my mind for some time.”

  The Mire scowled down at the ground. A cruel-looking sort, the Dogman thought, the type that might hang farmers, if there was one. “Aye, I’m the Mire. No need to ask your names! When they find you’ve killed some o’ the King’s collectors you’ll be dead men all!”

  “Black Dow, they call me.”

  The Mire’s head came up, his mouth wide open. “Oh fuck,” he whispered.

  The boy kneeling next to him stared round with big eyes. “Black Dow? You what? Not the same Black Dow as… oh fuck.”

  Dow nodded slowly, with that nasty smile spreading across his face, that killing smile. “Groa the Mire. You’ve all kind of work to pay for. I’ve had you in my mind, and now you’re in my eye.” He patted him on the cheek. “And in my hand too. What a happy chance.”

  The Mire snatched his face away, as far as he could, trussed up like he was. “I thought you were in hell, Black Dow, you bastard!”

  “So did I, but I was only north o’ the mountains. We’ve questions for you, Mire, before you get what’s due. Who’s this king? What is it you’re collecting for him?”

  “Fuck your questions!”

  Threetrees hit him on the side of his head, hard, where he couldn’t see it coming. When he turned round to look, Dow cracked him on the other side. Back and forth his head went, till he was soft enough to talk.

  “What’s the fight?” asked Threetrees.

  “We ain’t fighting!” spat the Mire through his broken teeth. “You might as well be dead, you bastards! You don’t know what’s happened, do yer?” Dogman frowned. He didn’t like the sound of this. Sounded like things had changed while they were gone, and he’d never yet seen a change for the better.

  “I’ll do the questions here,” said Threetrees. “You just keep your tiny min
d on the answers to ’em. Who’s still fighting? Who won’t kneel to Bethod?”

  The Mire laughed, even tied up like he was. “There’s no one left! The fighting’s over! Bethod’s King now. King of all the North! Everyone kneels to him—”

  “Not us,” rumbled Tul Duru, leaning down. “What about Old Man Yawl?”

  “Dead!”

  “What about Sything, or Rattleneck?”

  “Dead and dead, you stupid fucks! The only fighting now’s down south! Bethod’s gone to war with the Union! Aye! And we’re giving ’em a beating too!”

  The Dogman wasn’t sure whether to believe it. King? There’d never been a king in the North before. There’d never been a need for one, and Bethod was the last one he’d have chosen. And making war on the Union? That was a fool’s errand, surely. There were always more southerners.

  “If there’s no fighting here,” asked the Dogman, “what you killing for?”

  “Fuck yourself!”

  Tul slapped him in the face, hard, and he fell on his back. Dow put in a kick of his own, then dragged him up straight again.

  “What did you kill ’em for?” asked Tul.

  “Taxes!” shouted the Mire, with blood trickling out of his nose.

  “Taxes?” asked the Dogman. A strange word alright, he barely knew the meaning of it.

  “They wouldn’t pay!”

  “Taxes for who?” asked Dow.

  “For Bethod, who do you think? He took all this land, broke the clans up and took it for his own! The people owe him! And we collect!”

  “Taxes, eh? That’s a fucking southern fashion and no mistake! And if they can’t pay?” asked Dogman, feeling sick to his guts. “You hang ’em, do you?”

  “If they won’t pay we can do as we please with ’em!”

  “As you please?” Tul grabbed him round the neck, squeezing with his great big hand ’til the Mire’s eyes were half popping out. “As you please? Does it please you to hang ’em?”

  “Alright, Thunderhead,” said Dow, peeling Tul’s big fingers away, and pushing him gently back. “Alright, big lad, this ain’t for you, to kill a man tied up.” And he patted him on the chest, pulling out his axe. “It’s for work like this you bring along a man like me.”

  The Mire had more or less got over his throttling now. “Thunderhead?” he coughed, looking round at them. “It’s the whole lot of you, ain’t it! You’re Threetrees, and Grim, and that’s the Weakest there! So you don’t kneel, eh? Good for fuckin’ you! Where’s Ninefingers? Eh?” jeered the Mire. “Where’s the Bloody-Nine?”

  Dow turned round, running his thumb down the edge of his axe. “Gone back to the mud, and you’re joining him. We’ve heard enough.”

  “Let me up, bastard!” shouted the Mire, struggling at his ropes. “You’re no better’n me, Black Dow! You’ve killed more folk than the plague! Let me up and give me a blade! Come on! You scared to fight me, you coward? Scared to give a fair chance are yer?”

  “Call me coward, would you?” growled Dow. “You who’s killed children for the sport of it? You had a blade and you let it drop. That was your chance and you should have took it. The likes o’ you don’t deserve another. If you’ve anything to say worth hearing you best say it now.”

  “Shit on yer!” screamed the Mire, “Shit on the pack of—”

  Dow’s axe cracked him hard between the eyes and knocked him on his back. He kicked a little then that was it. Not a one of them shed too big a tear for that bastard—even Forley gave no more than a wince when the blade went in. Dow leaned over and spat on his corpse, and the Dogman hardly blamed him. The boy was something more of a problem, though. He stared down at the body with big, wide eyes, then he looked up.

  “You’re them, ain’t ya,” he said, “them as Ninefingers beat.”

  “Aye, boy,” said Threetrees, “we’re them.”

  “I heard stories, stories about you. What you going to do with me?”

  “Well, there’s the question, ain’t it,” Dogman muttered to himself. Shame was, he already knew the answer.

  “He can’t stay with us,” said Threetrees. “We can’t take the baggage and we can’t take the risk.”

  “He’s just a lad,” said Forley. “We could let him go.” It was a nice thought, but it wasn’t holding much water, and they all knew it. The boy looked hopeful, but Tul put an end to that.

  “We can’t trust him. Not here. He’d tell someone we were back, and then we’d be hunted. Can’t do it. Besides, he had his part in that work at the farm.”

  “But what choice did I ’ave?” asked the boy. “What choice? I wanted to go south! Go south and fight the Union, and earn myself a name, but they sent me here, to get taxes. My chief says do a thing, I got to do it, don’t I?”

  “You do,” said Threetrees. “No one says you could’ve done different.”

  “I didn’t want no part of it! I told him to let the young ones be! You got to believe me!”

  Forley looked down at his boots. “We do believe you.”

  “But you’re going to fuckin’ kill me anyway?”

  Dogman chewed at his lip. “Can’t take you with us, can’t leave you be.”

  “I didn’t want no part of it.” The boy hung his head. “Don’t hardly seem fair.”

  “It ain’t,” said Threetrees. “It ain’t fair at all. But there it is.”

  Dow’s axe hacked into the back of the lad’s skull and he sprawled out on his face. The Dogman winced and looked away. He knew Dow did it that way so they wouldn’t have to look at the boy’s face. A good idea most likely, and he hoped it helped the others, but face up or face down was all the same to him. He felt almost as sick as he had back at the farm.

  It wasn’t the worst day he’d ever had, not by a long way. But it was a bad one.

  The Dogman watched ’em filing down the road from a good spot up in the trees where no one could see him. He made sure it was downwind from ’em too, cause being honest, he was smelling a bit ripe. It was a strange old procession. On the one hand they looked like fighting men, off to a weapon-take and then to battle. On the other hand they were all wrong. Old weapons mostly, and odds and sods of mixed up armour. Marching, but loose and ragged. Most of ’em too old to be prime fighters, grey hair and bald heads, and a lot of the rest too young for beards, hardly more than boys.

  Seemed to the Dogman like nothing made sense in the North no more. He thought on what the Mire had said before Dow killed him. War with the Union. Were these lot off to war? If they were then Bethod must have been scraping the pot.

  “What’s to do, Dogman?” asked Forley, as he stepped back into the camp. “What’s happening down there?”

  “Men. Armed, but none too well. Five score or more. Young and old mostly, heading south and west,” and the Dogman pointed off down the road.

  Threetrees nodded. “Towards Angland. He means it then, Bethod. He’s making war on the Union, all the way. No amount of blood’s enough for that one. He’s taking every man can hold a spear.” That was no surprise, in its way. Bethod had never been one for half measures. He was all or nothing, and didn’t care who got killed along the road. “Every man,” muttered Threetrees to himself. “If the Shanka come over the mountains now…”

  Dogman looked round. Frowning, worried, dirty faces. He knew what Threetrees was saying, they could all see it. If the Shanka came now, with no one left in the North to fight ’em, that business at the farm would be the best of it.

  “We got to warn someone!” shouted Forley, “we got to warn them!”

  Threetrees shook his head. “You heard the Mire. Yawl’s gone, and Rattleneck, and Sything. All dead and cold, and gone back to the mud. Bethod’s King now, King of the Northmen.” Black Dow scowled and gobbed in the dirt. “Spit all you like Dow, but facts is facts. There’s no one left to warn.”

  “No one but Bethod himself,” muttered the Dogman, miserable at having to say it.

  “Then we got to tell him!” Forley looked round them all, desperate
. “He may be a heartless bastard but at least he’s a man! He’s better than the Flatheads ain’t he? We got to tell someone!”

  “Hah!” barked Dow. “Hah! You think he’ll listen to us, Weakest? You forgotten what he told us? Us and Ninefingers too? Never come back! You forgotten how close he come to killing us? You forgotten how much he hates each one of us?”

  “Fears us,” said Grim.

  “Hates and fears us,” muttered Threetrees, “and he’s wise to. Because we’re strong. Named men. Known men. The type of men that others will follow.”

  Tul nodded his big head. “Aye, there’ll be no welcome for us at Carleon I’m thinking. No welcome without a spike on the end of it.”

  “I’m not strong!” shouted Forley. “I’m the Weakest, everyone knows that! Bethod’s got no reason to fear me, nor to hate me neither. I’ll go!”

  Dogman looked at him, surprised. They all did. “You?” asked Dow.

  “Aye, me! I may be no fighter, but I’m no coward neither! I’ll go and talk to him. Maybe he’ll listen.” Dogman stood and stared. It was so long since any one of them had tried to talk their way out of a fix he’d forgotten it could be done.

  “Might be he’ll listen,” muttered Threetrees.

  “He might listen,” said Tul. “Then he might bloody kill you, Weakest!”

  Dogman shook his head. “It’s quite a chance.”

  “Maybe, but it’s worth the doing, ain’t it?”

  They all looked at each other, worried. It was some bones that Forley was showing, no doubt, but the Dogman didn’t much like the sound of this for a plan. He was a thin thread to hang your hopes on, was Bethod. A mighty thin thread.

  But like Threetrees said, there was no one else.

  Words and Dust

  Kurster pranced around the outside of the circle, his long golden hair bouncing on his shoulders, waving to the crowd, blowing kisses to the girls. The audience cheered and howled and whooped as the lithe young man made his flashy rounds. He was an Aduan, an officer of the King’s Own. A local boy, and so very popular.