A Little Hatred

by Joe Abercrombie

  “Quite the entrance,” he said.

  He wasn’t tall, but solid as a tree, great meaty gut, great meaty forearms, great meaty neck and jowls, thumbs tucked into a weathered sword-belt. He might’ve been the same height as Rikke, but easily twice her weight. One of his cheeks was all puckered with an old scar.

  She spat out some bits of leaf and whispered, “Fuck.”

  But instead of grabbing her around the throat, he just stepped back and bowed.

  “Please.” And he offered her the way with one broad palm, like one of those fancy footmen in Ostenhorm might’ve done.

  No time to wonder about the gift, only to grab it with both hands. “Thanks,” she wheezed as she clambered up, mouth tasting of blood. Her soggy shirt was hopelessly snarled on the thorns and she wriggled free of it, lurching on winded in her vest.

  Dogs barked behind and she snatched blurred glances over her shoulder, shadows dancing in the rain-lashed forest, sure at every jolting step their teeth would sink into her arse and bring her down. Someone was crashing through the woods ahead, she heard Isern shout, “Rikke? You there?”

  “Right…” she gurgled, “behind you!”

  Then light flashed between trunks, the trees opening up. She felt a giddy surge of relief which, as usual, soon turned to horror. They’d seen the scar through the woods from higher up and thought there must be a river. But through the curtains of rain, there’d been no way of knowing it was cut into a deep ravine.

  She knew it now. A rocky edge, sprouting with sick grass, clung to by stunted little trees, beaten water thundering below. She saw Isern spring, arching back in the air, spear over her head. She saw her clear the gap, a daunting four strides wide at least, roll through the wet moss and ferns clinging to the far side and come smoothly to her feet.

  For an instant, Rikke thought about stopping. Then she thought about getting fucked by Stour Nightfall’s horse and of a sudden, getting smashed to paste in the bottom of a gorge seemed a pretty fine outcome. Wasn’t like she could stop anyway, belting full-tilt down a steep and slippery bank. She pushed herself faster, chest heaving, teeth rattling, and trusted to luck, however bad her luck had been lately.

  The ravine yawned wide as she burst from the trees, a glimpse of jagged rock dropping away to white water.

  She got a firm footing at the edge, which was lucky, and a decent push off with her right leg, which was good, and she went up something lovely, wind cold in her wide-open mouth, flying into the flitting rain.

  It was just that she started coming down too soon. Maybe if she’d eaten something that day, there’d have been more spring in her. But she hadn’t. She clawed at the air, like she might be able to drag herself closer, but she was dropping fast now and didn’t need the Long Eye to see she’d fall short.

  The terrible justice of the ground. Sooner or later, everyone who jumps must meet it.

  The slick rocks came hurtling at her.

  “Oh fu—”

  Earth thudded into her stomach and drove all her wind out in a great spitty wheeze. She clutched desperately at wet leaves, wet roots, wet grass, no strength, no breath, dirt sprinkling in her eyes as she started sliding over the edge, fingernails uselessly scrabbling.

  Then Isern’s hand clamped around her wrist. Isern’s face above her, screwed up with furious effort, scar white on her lips, tongue wedged into the hole in her clenched teeth. Rikke groaned as her shoulder stretched, feeling like her whole arm would rip from the socket.

  Probably she should’ve told Isern to let her go, big dramatic gesture, time for a single tear before she plunged to her doom, but that’s not how it works when the Great Leveller’s breathing on your neck. She clutched at Isern’s sinewy arm like a drowning woman to the mast of a sinking ship, choking and struggling and kicking and like as not to drag them both over.

  “You’re heavier than you fucking—gah!”

  Something flickered past and Isern gave a grunt, pulled even harder. Rikke’s flailing foot caught on rock and she managed to shove herself upwards. Finally heaved a breath into her aching chest, growled as she pushed again and Isern went over backwards, dragging Rikke on top of her, the two of them rolling together into the soaking bracken.

  “Move!” Isern staggered up, fell, crawled on, dragging her spear along with a handful of torn grass. There was an arrow through her leg. Rikke could see the bloody head sticking from the back of her thigh.

  She looked over her shoulder, through the slackening rain saw dogs yapping and growling and prowling at the ravine’s edge and, a few strides above them, a man kneeling in the trees. Close enough she could see the frown on his dirty face, the frayed edge of his archery guard, the bow drawn in his hand.

  Her eyes went wide, and one burned hot. Hot as a glowing coal in her skull.

  She heard the flapping click of the bowstring.

  She saw the arrow.

  But she saw it with the Long Eye.

  And for an instant, like the dawn sun blazing into her room as the shutters were flung wide, the absolute knowing of that arrow burst upon her.

  She saw where it was, all it was, where it had been and would be.

  She saw its making, smith with teeth clenched as he hammered out the head, fletcher with tongue wedged in his cheek as he trimmed the flights.

  She saw its ending, shaft rotted and head flaked away to rust among the brambles.

  She saw it in the quiver hooked over the foot of the archer’s bed as he kissed his wife Riam goodbye and hoped that her broken toe mended.

  She saw its bright point cut through a falling raindrop and scatter it into glittering mist.

  She knew with utter certainty where that arrow would be, always. So she flicked her hand out, and when it came to meet her, as she knew it must, it was the easiest thing to push it. Just to nudge it with her finger so it missed Isern as she limped away and spun off harmless into the trees, bouncing once and coming to rest in the undergrowth in its right place, in the only place it could be, where she’d seen it rot away among the brambles.

  “By the dead,” breathed Rikke, staring at her hand.

  There was a bead of blood on the tip of her forefinger. Arrowhead must’ve grazed it. And a quivering shiver went all the way through her. She hadn’t really believed it till this moment, not even when she saw Uffrith burning, just like in her dream. But now there was no denying it.

  She had the Long Eye.

  It still throbbed, warm in her clammy face. She stared at the archer, his brow knitted up in shock as he stared back, his jaw dropping lower and lower.

  A great joyous, wondering giggle bubbled up at the impossible thing she’d done, and Rikke stuck her fist up and screamed, “Give my regards to Riam! Hope her toe mends!” Then she scampered after Isern, caught her under the armpit and helped her on into the dripping trees.

  But not before she caught a glimpse of a rope bridge a hundred strides upstream, bouncing and twisting as men hurried across it, sharpened metal gleaming with wet. How many men, she couldn’t tell. Enough, that was the number, and the joy of knowing the arrow was squashed straight out of her.

  “Come on,” she hissed as they blundered through the clutching, snagging, sodden bushes. Isern fell snarling and Rikke helped her up but she was slow, now, everything heavy with damp, her leg dragging.

  “Go,” she snapped. “I’ll follow.”

  “No,” said Rikke, hauling her on.

  She thought she heard fighting behind them. Men screaming. Dogs whimpering. Scrape and clatter of steel. The trees echoed with it, everywhere and nowhere. Branches whipped at her and Rikke clawed them away, broke through into a boggy clearing. The rain was down to a drizzle, a broken wall of mossy rock ahead, slick with trickling water.

  “Go.” Isern turned towards the woods, growled in pain as her wounded leg gave and she slid onto her side. “Climb!”

  “No,” said Rikke, “I’m not leaving you.”

  “Better one of us live than neither. Go.”

  “No,�
� said Rikke. She could hear someone crashing through the trees towards them. Someone big.

  “Get behind me, then.” Isern pushed Rikke back, but she could only stand leaning on her spear. She’d be fighting no one. Not winning, anyway.

  “I’ve hid behind you long enough.” Strange thing, but Rikke didn’t feel scared any more. “I’m not much of a climber anyway.” She peeled Isern’s fingers from the shaft of her spear and helped her lean against the rocks. “Time for me to take a turn at the front.”

  Isern’s bloody leg quivered as she sank back. “We’re doomed.”

  Rikke gripped the spear tight and lowered it towards the trees, wondering whether to hold on to it or throw it when they came, wishing her Long Eye would open again so she didn’t have to guess.

  She thought of Nightfall’s voice above her, while she hid in the stream. Her guts in a box, with some herbs, so her father wouldn’t smell them till it was opened.

  “Come on!” she screamed, spraying spit. “I’m fucking waiting!”

  Wet leaves rustled and a man stepped into the clearing. A big man in a weather-stained coat, holding a scarred shield and a sword with a silver letter near the hilt. Even through the grey hair hanging lank across his face, Rikke could see the awful scar, from his forehead through his brow and across his cheek to the corner of his mouth, and in the misshapen socket of his left eye there was no eye at all, but a bright ball of dead metal, gleaming as the sun broke through above.

  He raised his brows at the two of them, hunched and bloodied against the rocky wall. Or he raised the good one, anyway. The burned one just twitched a little. Then he spoke in a voice like the grinding of a mill wheel.

  “Been looking for you two.”

  Rikke stood still, for a moment, just staring. Then she stepped towards him, letting out a long, shuddering breath, and she tossed the spear down in the grass and flung her arms around him.

  “Took your fucking time, Caul Shivers!” Isern snarled through clenched teeth. “There’s some of Nightfall’s boys hunting us.”

  “Put ’em out o’ your mind.” And Rikke saw his sword was all dashed and speckled with red. He’d always been a man who could get a lot said in a few words. “Can you walk?”

  “Without the arrow,” hissed Isern, “I could run rings around you.”

  “Don’t doubt it.” Shivers puffed out cheeks scattered with silver stubble as he squatted beside her. “But you’ve got the arrow.” And he poked at it with one big finger and made her grimace.

  “You are not fucking carrying me,” she growled.

  “Ain’t high on my list o’ wants, believe it or not.” Shivers slid his sword through the clasp at his belt. “But once you’ve a task to do, it’s better to do it—”

  “Than live with the fear of it,” Rikke finished for him. It was one of her father’s favourites.

  Shivers pulled Isern up by one arm and hefted her over his shoulder as if she weighed nothing at all. With what they’d been eating, she probably wasn’t far off.

  “This is a bloody indignity,” Isern grunted into Shivers’ back as he started walking.

  “What about me?” muttered Rikke. Now she was something close to safe her strength had all leaked away, and her face was twitching and her knees were knocking, and she felt like she might topple over right there and never get up.

  “You always were a moaner.” Shivers shook his head. “Come on. Your father’s waiting.”

  Biding Time, Wasting Time

  “Ever think maybe you drink too much?” asked Wonderful.

  Clover smacked his lips. “Too much would, by definition, be too much. I find however much I drink is just the right amount.” And he offered her the bottle.

  She shook her head. “Drunks tend to say that.”

  Clover treated her to his aggrieved look. “As do the broadly sober.” He’d a wonderful aggrieved look. Lots of practice. “I find myself aggrieved. Have you ever seen me lose a fight on account of drunkenness?”

  “I’ve never seen you fight.”

  Clover slapped the cork back into the bottle. “A clear indication of reasonable drinking if ever there was one.”

  “Well, if I was you, I’d at least look sober.” Wonderful pointed one of her brows off down the track. “The Great Wolf approaches.”

  And approach he did, with high drama. Storming and swaggering at once with his brow well creased and his brooding young stags at his back, making Thralls scatter from their path like chickens in a farmyard. Given all the damp still in the air, it was a wonder they weren’t steaming.

  “Here come the gods of war,” mouthed Clover, and then out loud, as the Great Wolf stalked closer, “Drink, Chief?”

  Stour slapped the bottle from his hand and it bounced away into the bushes.

  Clover looked sadly after it. “I’ll take that as a no.”

  “She got away!” snarled the king-in-waiting, in quite the fury even for him. “Fucking little bitch got away!”

  “We’re all distraught.”

  “She came through right where you were supposed to be!” snapped a bastard of Stour’s called Greenway. If legends were built on sneering, he’d have had quite a place in the songs. “Did you see her?”

  “Saw her shirt,” said Clover, tossing the torn thing over. “At least, I’m guessing it was hers. Doubt it’ll fit you, though. Bit tight under the arms, I expect—”

  Greenway flung it angrily on the ground. “Did you see her?”

  “If I had, I’d have caught her.”

  “You’d have had to fucking get up to do that,” snarled Magweer, aiming for the same caged-wolf act as Stour but only managing a fraction of the menace.

  “I’d have sung out, anyway,” said Clover. “That I can do sitting down.”

  He wondered why he hadn’t sung out. She’d just looked like such a desperate, ragged little scrap to have all these bastards chasing her, and when the hunt was on, he’d always secretly rooted for the fox. If you can’t find a way to win that doesn’t involve torturing some half-mad girl, then maybe you don’t deserve to win at all. Or maybe that was all shit, and it was just ’cause she was pretty. The sad truth is that pretty people can slide through all kinds of scrapes that’d end very badly for the ugly.

  Clover looked from Greenway to Magweer and shrugged. “Seems hunting girls just ain’t my sport.”

  Stour stepped closer, staring at Clover with those ever-wet eyes of his. “Your sport is whatever I say it is.”

  Clover shrugged it off. “I’m eager to serve, great prince, but I can’t just turn into a butterfly. Your father sent me for my cunning, not my running. Why, you might as well order the river to blow and the wind to flow.”

  “You’re loyal, ain’t you, Clover?” Magweer said it softly, like it was some brilliant trap of words.

  “Reasonably so, I like to think. A man has to bend with the breeze.”

  “You turned on Glama Golden, I heard,” said Greenway, climbing to new heights of sneer. “Cairm Ironhead, too.”

  “I was loyal to both,” said Clover. “I was just more loyal to me. Truth is, men love to blab about loyalty till it might trap ’em on the losing side. Then there’s a chorus o’ silence on the issue. So I consider reasonably loyal to be a bit more loyal than most, and a lot more honest than most. It’s a fool who makes folk choose too often between loyalty and good sense. How’d she get loose, anyway?”

  “Caul Shivers was waiting on the other side of the river,” hissed Stour, clenching his fists. “Killed four of my men.”

  “Shivers.” Magweer was clenching his fists just the same way. “Wish I’d run into that old fucker.”

  Wonderful and Clover burst out laughing at the exact same time. He leaned forward, hands on his knees, and she leaned back, fist on his shoulder, and no doubt they made quite a picture chortling away but they really couldn’t help ’emsleves.

  “Good one,” said Clover, with a sigh. “Good one.”

  “What’s so fucking funny?”

&n
bsp; Wonderful waved a finger at Magweer’s collection of weapons. “My friend, if you’d run into Caul Shivers, you’d be wearing all those axes up your arse. You should take care charging at fights. Sooner or later, you’ll trip over a bigger one than you wanted.”

  “There’s no fight too big for me,” he growled back.

  “Really?” asked Wonderful. “What if it’s just you and nineteen o’ them?”

  Magweer opened his mouth, strained, but couldn’t find a reply. He was a child’s notion of what a warrior should be, all scowl and muscle and carrying half a blacksmith’s shop around. Clover gave a sigh. “You need to calm down, my friend.”

  “Or else what, old man?”

  “Or else you’ll make yourself sad, and ain’t the world a grim enough place without another frown? Everyone stomping around like the Bloody-Nine, like they’d murder the whole world if they got the chance.”

  Stour narrowed his eyes. “The Bloody-Nine was the greatest warrior the North ever saw.”

  “I know,” said Clover. “I watched him beat Fenris the Feared in the Circle.”

  Silence. “You saw that?” A hint of respect suddenly crept into Stour’s whining voice.

  Wonderful laughed again and thumped that fist down on Clover’s shoulder. “He held a shield.”

  “You held a shield? When the Bloody-Nine fought the Feared?”

  “On behalf of your grandfather, Bethod,” said Clover. “Eighteen years old and knowing half o’ nothing and thinking myself quite the hard bastard.”

  “Everyone says that was a great duel,” breathed Stour, a faraway look in his wet eyes.

  “It was a bloody one. Sadly, I walked away with the wrong lessons. Enough that I ended up taking a challenge or two myself…” Clover found he was scratching at his scar, and made himself leave it alone. “If you want my advice, stay out of the Circle.”

  “The Circle is where names are made!” barked Stour, thumping his chest with a fist. “I beat Stranger-Come-Knocking there! Carved him all to hell.”

  “And from what I heard, it was a fight for the songs.” Though what Clover actually heard was that Stranger-Come-Knocking got old and slow and lived past his reputation, a tragedy that befalls every great fighter not killed in his prime. “But each time you step into the Circle, you balance your life on a sword’s edge. Sooner or later, it won’t fall your way.”