A Little Hatred

by Joe Abercrombie

  Stour’s young warriors scoffed like they never heard aught so contemptible as this eminent good sense. “Did Black Dow fear the Circle?” sneered Greenway.

  “Or Whirrun of Bligh, or Shama Heartless, or Rudd Threetrees?” asked Magweer.

  Wonderful rolled her eyes. No doubt she was about to point out that all four of those heroes died bloody deaths, and half of them in the Circle, too. Stour got in first, though. “The Bloody-Nine fought eleven duels and won ’em all.”

  “He beat the odds, that’s true,” said Clover. “For a time. He beat the Feared and he stole your grandfather’s chain. But what did it get him? He lost everything, made nothing, and time’ll just hand that chain to you. Who’d want to be like that bastard?”

  Stour opened his arms wide, opened his eyes wide, put on the big act. “The only chain I want is a chain of blood!” Made not the slightest sense. How could you make a chain out of blood anyway? Terrible metaphor. But Magweer and Greenway and the rest of the arse-lickers gave a chorus of warlike growls and shaken fists. “I don’t want to be like the Bloody-Nine. I want to be the Bloody-Nine!” Stour hitched his crazed smile a little wider in a reasonable impression of the Bloody-Nine in his worse moments. “No man more famed. No man more feared.”

  “He wants to be the Bloody-Nine,” said Wonderful, deadpan, as the Great Wolf stalked off out of earshot, always hurrying to nowhere.

  “To have women spit at the mention of your name. To sow death for years and reap naught but hate at the end. To walk all your days in a circle of blood.” Clover could only shake his head. “I never will unpick the riddle of why men want what they want.”

  “You going to let that fool Magweer talk to you that way?” asked Wonderful.

  Clover looked at her. “What’s it to you how he talks?”

  “Confirms these young idiots in their opinion they know best.”

  “We can’t correct the misapprehensions of every idiot any more’n we can correct the tide.” Clover frowned off into the damp undergrowth where Stour had slapped that bottle, wondering if there was enough left in it to justify the search. He decided most likely not, strolled to the nearest tree instead and slowly lowered himself beside it. “Words leave no wounds and I’ve run at feuds enough. I try to run the other way these days.”

  “Very wise. But like you said, you ain’t much of a runner.”

  “True. If someone’s fixed on feuding, I’ve come to realise there’s only two realistic options.” Clover wriggled back against the trunk until he found a comfortable position. “First, you just float over it, like dandelion seeds on a stiff breeze, and pay it no mind at all.”

  “Second?”

  “Murder the bastard.” Clover grinned up at the blue sky, where the sun was starting to finally show some warmth. “But I wouldn’t want to spoil such a wonderful afternoon with murder, would you?”

  “It’d be a shame, I’ll admit.” Wonderful watched Clover as he stretched out and crossed his legs. “What are you doing?”

  “What we should all be doing.” Clover closed his eyes. “Biding my time.”

  “What’s the difference between biding it and wasting it?”

  Clover saw no need to open his eyes. “Results, woman. Results.”

  The Bigger They Are

  Glaward peeled his shirt off and tossed it over to Barniva, then growled as he brought his fists together, woody muscle flexing in his outsize chest. An appreciative mutter rose from the onlookers gathered at the fence, a few numbers tossed out. Leo’s steadily lengthening odds, no doubt.

  “I swear he’s got bigger,” murmured Jurand, eyes wide.

  “So have I,” growled Leo, trying to sound as big as he could.

  “No doubt. Your legs are nearly as thick as his arms now.”

  “I can beat him.”

  “Easily. With a sword. So why fight him with your hands?”

  Leo started unbuttoning his own shirt. “When I lived in Uffrith, the Dogman used to tell me stories about the Bloody-Nine. The duels he won in the Circle. I loved those stories. Used to dance around the garden behind his hall with a stick, pretending I was Ninefingers and the laundry post was Rudd Threetrees, or Black Dow, or Fenris the Feared.” There was still a thrill in saying the names. Like they were magic words.

  Jurand watched Glaward loose a few brutal practice punches. “The laundry post won’t knock your teeth out.”

  Leo tossed his shirt over Jurand’s head. “A champion never knows what he’ll have to fight with. That’s why I always let you bastards pick the weapons.” It was a cold morning, so he started bouncing on his toes to get the blood moving. “That’s why I beat Barniva with a heavy sword, and Antaup with a spear. Why I beat Whitewater Jin with a mace and you with long and short steels. That’s why I test my archery against Ritter. Used to, that is.” The poor dead fool. “But I never yet beat Glaward with my bare hands.”

  “Well, no,” said Jurand, that worried crease between his brows. “He’s built like a barn.”

  “The bigger they are—”

  “The harder they hit?”

  “Your defeats teach you more than your victories,” muttered Leo, trying to slap some warmth into his muscles.

  “They hurt more, too.” Jurand dropped his voice a little. “At least tell me you’ll fight dirty.”

  “With honour or not at all,” grunted Leo. He thought Casamir the Steadfast might have said it in a storybook once. “Whose side are you on, anyway?”

  “Yours.” Jurand looked a little hurt by the question. “Always. We all are. That’s why I won’t enjoy seeing him choke you unconscious.”

  Leo narrowed his eyes. “What I need from my second is belief.”

  Sinew popped from Glaward’s arms as he raised his fists. Leo couldn’t deny it was a majestic sight. Like some piece of exaggerated statuary. Even his teeth looked muscular. “I’m going to squeeze you out like a lemon,” he growled.

  “The Young Lemon!” barked Barniva, to much merriment from the onlookers.

  Jurand leaned close. “If you die, can I have your horse?”

  “Belief,” growled Leo, and dashed forward. Attack, always attack. Especially when the odds are against you.

  He caught Glaward off guard, ducked under a wild fist, the wind of it catching his hair, and gave the big man the heaviest punches to the body he could. No doubt Glaward was carrying a little fat, but any hope he was soft underneath was long gone. Leo felt as if he’d punched a tree.

  “Shit,” he hissed through his fixed smile, shaking out his throbbing fingers.

  “I’m going to make you eat this hillside,” growled Glaward, and the growing audience whooped and laughed.

  The dead knew Leo needed to watch Glaward’s fists, but his eye kept being drawn to two of the oddest-looking women among the spectators. The older had a sharp, expressionless face, mouth twisted by a scar, trouser-leg slit open showing bandages underneath. The younger had a wide, almost over-expressive face, a thick gold ring through her broad, freckled nose and a tangle of red-brown hair so wild those behind had to lean around it to see.

  “This is manly,” she said, propping a muddy boot on the rail of the fence, its tongue flopping from bodged laces. “Do they charge for the spectacle?”

  “Far as I can tell,” mused the old one, “they take their clothes off for free.”

  The young one spread her arms and gave a huge smile. “What a public-spirited thing to do!”

  Glaward was in no mood to give anything away. He kept pressing forward, one big fist flicking out in lethal-looking jabs. Leo dodged one, and another, but the third glanced his cheek and sent him staggering. He slipped on the wet grass, luckily, since Glaward’s other fist lashed the air where his head had just been. He slid around the big man, gave him a petulant tap in the ribs as he passed to no effect at all.

  Glaward gave a scornful snort. “Are we fighting or dancing?”

  Over his heavy shoulder, Leo caught sight of the girl again, staring cross-eyed at a strand of ha
ir in her face. She stuck her bottom lip out to blow it away, and it flopped straight back in her eyes along with three others. There was something familiar about her, like a name on the tip of his tongue.

  “We’re fighting!” he snarled, and ducked in with a flurry of punches, teeth bared and spit flying.

  “That’s it!” he heard Jurand shout. “Give him hell!”

  But Leo’s best efforts slapped harmlessly against Glaward’s big arms, scuffed the top of his head, bounced from his sides. Then a heavy fist came from nowhere, caught Leo under the chin and sent him tottering. He whooped helplessly as he was hauled into the air by his belt.

  Dark land and bright sky reeled, he flailed wildly, then the ground struck him hard in the side, rattled his teeth, tumbled him over and over and onto his face.

  He gave a long groan as he dragged himself up and saw Glaward’s great boot already rushing to meet him. He gasped as he rolled away, the big heel digging a great divot from the turf. He scrambled to his feet, lost his balance and fell against the fence.

  “This blond one is pretty,” the older woman was saying.

  “I have eyes.” The young one was watching him with her chin propped on her hands, head bouncing as she chewed something. She certainly did have eyes. Big, and very pale, and very piercing.

  “He’s like a hunting dog, all fierce and frisky.”

  Leo didn’t feel too frisky as Glaward’s fists came at him again. He covered up but the force in them was fearsome. A punch in the side slammed him against the fence and drove his breath out, a knuckle caught his jaw and turned his mouth salty.

  “Get out of there!” he heard Jurand shout over his own gurgling, rasping breath.

  He only just ducked a blow that would’ve knocked him right over the fence and shoved Glaward away with all his strength. The big man barely moved, but Leo bounced off at least, staggering clear of the fence with his face throbbing, lungs burning, knees wobbling.

  Glaward could’ve knocked him down with a pointed finger. But he was fixed on milking his moment, throwing his great fists in the air, strutting like a cock in his own farmyard.

  “Hit him!” Jurand hooted over the crowd. “Bloody hit him!”

  But it was clear Leo would never beat Glaward with his fists. He had to beat him with his head. He thought, through the fog, of what his mother would’ve said. Less courage, more judgement. Putting their worst troops on show in the valley, marching as badly as they could. Even as his head cleared, he shook it as if he could hardly see straight, clutched at his ribs as if he could hardly get a breath. Even as the strength returned to his legs, he put on a drunken stagger.

  “Are we fight?” he gurgled, showing his bloody teeth. “Or dance?”

  He’d have won no laurels for his acting but Glaward was blessed with more muscle than imagination. He charged in with no caution at all, readying a punch they’d be talking about for years. But Leo had his wits back. He dropped under it, rolled smoothly, caught Glaward’s big calf on the way past and sprang up, pulling the leg with him.

  Glaward grunted with surprise, hopped once, waving his arms for balance, then his other foot slid from under him and he came crashing down on his face.

  “Now who’s eating the hillside?” crowed Leo. Glaward clawed helplessly at the turf, snapping and snarling, but Leo had Glaward’s huge boot in a lock against his chest and wasn’t letting go. “How does it taste?”

  Leo twisted harder and the big man slapped at the ground. “All right! I’m done! I’m done!”

  Leo let the boot fall and tottered back. He felt Jurand catch his wrist and lift his arm high.

  “A victory for reasonably sized men everywhere!” he shouted, draping Leo’s shirt over his shoulder.

  “Don’t get dressed on our account,” called the older woman, and the younger threw her head back and gave a gurgling laugh.

  “Leo!” someone shouted. One of the few optimistic enough to bet on him, probably. He tried to grin through the considerable pain. Was one of his teeth loose? “The Young Lion!”

  The girl was frowning straight at him. “You’re Leo dan Brock?”

  “None other,” said Jurand, clapping him proudly on the shoulder.

  “Ha!” She sprang down from the fence and strutted towards him with a huge grin. “It’s little Leo!”

  Jurand raised his brows. “Little Leo?”

  She looked him up and down. “Well, he has grown.” And much to his surprise, she threw her arms around him, gripped him behind the head and pressed his face into her shoulder.

  And that was when he saw, among a rattling mass of charms, bones, runes and necklaces she wore, a wooden dowel on a thong, all dented with tooth marks.

  “Rikke?” He broke away to stare at her, looking for some trace of the sickly little girl he used to mock in her father’s hall in Uffrith. “I heard you were lost!”

  She threw her fists in the air. “I’m found!” Then she let them drop, and scratched at the back of her head. “To be fair, I was a little lost, but Isern-i-Phail knows all the ways. She steered me home.”

  “As a great sea captain steers a leaky skiff, d’you see?” The older woman’s scar twisted the corner of her mouth and made her look like she had a constant frown. Or maybe she was constantly frowning. “I’m quite the hero, but let’s not make too much of it.”

  “Black Calder’s bastards were everywhere. And his son Stour fucking Nightfall.” Rikke bared her teeth in a burst of fury so sudden, Leo nearly stepped back. “I’ll see that prick back to the mud, I promise you!” And she spat, left a long string of it dangling from her lip and dashed it away. “Bastards.”

  “But… you’re not hurt?”

  Rikke stuck her fists in Leo’s face and pushed a finger up for each point. “I’ve been starved, slapped, pissed on, shot at, chased by dogs, threatened with being fucked by a pig, slept under a hanged man, near fell down a gorge, killed a boy and shat myself, so, you know,” and she shrugged, head falling to one side and her shoulders right up around her ears, “I’m hoping next week’ll be easier going, let’s say that.”

  “Sounds… trying.” He hardly knew what she was talking about, but he liked hearing her talk. “It’s good to see you again.” He meant it. They’d been close once. As close as you could be, with someone as strange as she’d been.

  “You remember the first time we met?” she asked.

  Leo winced. “Hard to forget.”

  “You mocked my twitching and my foolish hair and my unusual way.”

  “Eager to prove myself in front of the boys.”

  She nodded towards Glaward, who was sitting on the hillside rubbing at his twisted ankle. “Some things never change.”

  “If it helps, I’m not proud of it.”

  “It helped when I knocked you down and sat on you.”

  Leo’s turn to scratch at the back of his head. “Your defeats teach you more than your victories, I hear. And you were half a head taller than me.” He drew himself up, looking down at her from as far above now as she’d looked down on him then. “Doubt you’d try it now.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” She reached out and wiped the blood from his top lip with her thumb. Maybe her eye twitched. Or maybe she winked right at him. “I might be persuaded.”

  “Better’n being fucked by a pig, I reckon,” said Isern-i-Phail, grunting softly as she lifted her bandaged leg from the fence and turned hobbling away. “I need to steer this leaky skiff back to her father before she drifts off course again. I gave my word!”

  “I am in much demand.” Rikke backed away, gave a bow that left one hand brushing the turf, then slipped up onto the rail of the fence. “See you later, little Leo.” And she swung her boots over it and swaggered off, leaving Leo staring after her.

  “My, my, my.” Antaup had appeared, as he often did when women were around, sucking air through pursed lips as he watched Rikke go. “Who’s the beauty with the ring through her nose?”

  “Three mys?” murmured Jurand, drily. “Virt
ually a proposal of marriage.”

  “That,” said Leo, “was Rikke.”

  “The Dogman’s missing daughter?”

  “We used to be close when I was in Uffrith. She’s… grown.”

  “In all the right places,” said Antaup. “Those eyes, though.”

  “Don’t they say she can see the future?” asked Jurand, looking less than convinced.

  Barniva’s whisper was full of laughter in Leo’s ear. “I’ve a suspicion she sees your cock in it.”

  Jurand turned away, shaking his head. “For pity’s sake…” He was a great friend, and damned clever, but he could be a hell of a prude.

  “Careful.” Leo threw his arm around Barniva’s neck and pulled him into a headlock. “I might have to make you eat the hillside next.”

  “Well, if you’d rather wrestle…” Antaup licked his finger and thumb and gave that loose curl at the front of his hair a little tweak. “It’d be a shame to leave such a promising field unploughed…”

  It was then Leo made up his mind that he was interested. Antaup knew all about women. If he was impressed, everyone would be.

  “Keep your plough to yourself.” He caught Antaup with his free arm and dragged him into the good-natured tussle, giving Rikke’s backside the same sort of hungry grin his friends were giving it. “And stay off my land.”

  Questions

  She thought Tallow was in the room on her left. She’d recognised his voice burbling through the wall, and even if she couldn’t hear the words, she could hear the fear. Grise was on her right. Vick had heard her screaming insults. Then just screaming. No questions yet, though. Softening her up. Vick wondered how soft she was, now.

  Strange how quick you lose track of time when you can’t see the sky. Just the windowless white room, too brightly lit, and the table with two chairs and three bloodstains, and the door. Was it hours since they were caught, or days? She might’ve dozed a while. Jerked awake with the sweat cold on her bare skin to hear someone begging in the corridor outside. But the door had stayed closed. They’d stripped her, and chained her to the chair, and left her there, gradually aching more and more to piss.