Abercrombie, Joe - The Heroes
‘Fame’s a prison, no doubt. How’s your face?’
‘Lucky I’ve always been an ugly bastard. I’ll look no worse’n before. Do we know what it was did the damage?’
Dow shook his head. ‘Who knows with the Southerners? Some new weapon. Some style o’ sorcery.’
‘It’s an evil one. That can just reach out and pluck men away like that.’
‘Is it? The Great Leveller’s waiting for all of us, ain’t he? There’ll always be someone stronger, quicker, luckier’n you, and the more fighting you do the quicker he’s going to find you. That’s what life is for men like us. The time spent plummeting towards that moment.’
Craw wasn’t sure he cared for that notion. ‘At least in the line, or the charge, or the circle a man can fight. Pretend to have a hand in the outcome.’ He winced as he touched the fresh stitching with his fingertips. ‘How do you make a song about someone whose head got splattered while he was half way through saying nothing much?’
‘Like Splitfoot.’
‘Aye.’ Craw wasn’t sure he’d ever seen anyone look deader than that bastard.
‘I want you to take his place.’
‘Eh?’ said Craw. ‘My ears are still whining. Not sure I heard you right.’
Dow leaned closer. ‘I want you to be my Second. Lead my Carls. Watch my back.’
Craw stared. ‘Me?’
‘Aye, you, what did I fucking say?’
‘But … why the hell me?’
‘You got the experience, and the respect …’ Dow looked at him for a moment, his jaw clenched tight. Then he waved a hand like he was swatting a fly. ‘You remind me o’ Threetrees.’
Craw blinked. It might’ve been one of the best things anyone had ever said to him, and not from a source prone to lazy compliments. Or any compliments at all, in fact. ‘Well … I don’t know what to say. Thank you, Chief. That means a lot. A hell of a bloody lot. If I ever get to be a tenth of the man he was then I’ll be more’n satisfied—’
‘Shit on that. Just tell me you’ll do it. I need someone I can count on, Craw, and you do things the old way. You’re a straight edge, and there ain’t many left. Just tell me you’ll do it.’ He had a strange look to him, suddenly. An odd, weak twist to his mouth. If Craw hadn’t known better, he’d have called it fear, and suddenly he saw it.
Dow had no one he could turn his back to. No friends but those he’d scared into serving him and a mountain of enemies. No choice but to trust to a man he hardly knew ’cause he reminded him of an old comrade long gone back to the mud. The cost of a great big name. The harvest of a lifetime in the black business.
‘’Course I’ll do it.’ And like that it was said. Maybe he felt for Dow in that moment, however mad it sounded. Maybe he understood the loneliness of being Chief. Or maybe the embers of his own ambitions, that he’d thought burned out beside his brothers’ graves long ago, flared up one last time when Dow raked ’em over. Either way it was said, and there was no unsaying it. Without wondering if it was the right thing to do. For him, or for his dozen, or for anyone, and straight away Craw had a terrible feeling like he’d made a bastard of a mistake. ‘Just while the battle’s on, though,’ he added, rowing back from the waterfall fast as he could. ‘I’ll hold the gap ’til you find someone better.’
‘Good man.’ Dow held out his hand, and they shook, and when Craw looked up again it was into that wolf grin, not a trace of weakness or fear or anything even close. ‘You done the right thing, Craw.’
Craw watched Dow walk back up the hillside towards the stones, wondering whether he’d really let his hard mask slip or if he’d just slipped a soft one on. The right thing? Had Craw just signed up as right hand to one of the most hated men in the world? A man with more enemies than any other in a land where everyone had too many? A man he didn’t even particularly like, promised to guard with his life? He gave a groan.
What would his dozen have to say about this? Yon shaking his head with a face like thunder. Drofd looking all hurt and confused. Brack rubbing at his temples with his— Brack was back to the mud, he realised with a jolt. Wonderful? By the dead, what would she have to—
‘Craw.’ And there she was, right at his elbow.
‘Ah!’ he said, taking a step away.
‘How’s the face?’
‘Er … all right … I guess. Everyone else all right?’
‘Yon got a splinter in his hand and it’s made him pissier’n ever, but he’ll live.’
‘Good. That’s … good. That everyone’s all right, that is, not … not the splinter.’
Her brows drew in, guessing something was wrong, which wasn’t too difficult since he was making a pitiful effort at hiding it. ‘What did our noble Protector want?’
‘He wanted …’ Craw worked his lips for a moment, wondering how to frame it, but a turd’s a turd however it’s framed. ‘He wanted to offer me Splitfoot’s place.’
He’d been expecting her to laugh her arse off, but she just narrowed her eyes. ‘You? Why?’
Good question, he was starting to wonder about it now. ‘He said I’m a straight edge.’
‘I see.’
‘He said … I remind him of Threetrees.’ Realising what a pompous cock he sounded even as the words came out.
He’d definitely been expecting her to laugh at that, but she just narrowed her eyes more. ‘You’re a man can be trusted. Everyone knows that. But I can see better reasons.’
‘Like what?’
‘You were tight with Bethod and his crowd, and with Threetrees before him, and maybe Dow thinks you’ll bring him a few friends he hasn’t already got. Or at any rate a few less enemies.’ Craw frowned. Those were better reasons. ‘That and he knows Whirrun’ll go wherever you go, and Whirrun’s a damn good man to have standing behind you if things get ugly.’ Shit. She was double right. She’d sussed it all straight off. ‘And knowing Black Dow, things are sure to get ugly … What did you tell him?’
Craw winced. ‘I said yes,’ and hurried after with, ‘just while the battle’s on.’
‘I see.’ Still no anger, and no surprise either. She just watched him. That was making him more nervy than if she’d punched him in the face. ‘And what about the dozen?’
‘Well …’ Ashamed to say he hadn’t really considered it. ‘Guess you’ll be coming along with me, if you’ll have it. Unless you want to go back to your farm and your family and—’
‘Retire?’
‘Aye.’
She snorted. ‘The pipe and the porch and the sunset on the water? That’s you, not me.’
‘Then … I reckon it’s your dozen for the time being.’
‘All right.’
‘You ain’t going to give me a tongue-lashing?’
‘About what?’
‘Not taking my own advice, for a start. About how I should keep my head down, not stick my neck out, get everyone in the crew through alive, how old horses can’t jump new fences and blah, blah, blah—’
‘That’s what you’d say. I’m not you, Craw.’
He blinked. ‘Guess not. Then you think this is the right thing to do?’
‘The right thing?’ She turned away with a hint of a grin. ‘That’s you an’ all.’ And she strolled back up towards the Heroes, one hand resting slack on her sword hilt, and left him stood there in the wind.
‘By the bloody dead.’ He looked off across the hillside, desperately searching for a finger that still had some nail left to chew at.
Shivers was standing not far off. Saying nothing. Just staring. Looking, in fact, like a man who felt himself stepped in front of. Craw’s wince became a full grimace. Seemed that was getting to be the normal shape to his face, one way and another. ‘A man’s worst enemies are his own ambitions,’ Bethod used to tell him. ‘Mine have got me in all the shit I’m in today.’
‘Welcome to the shit,’ he muttered to himself through gritted teeth. That’s the problem with mistakes. You can make ’em in an instant. Years upon years spent tiptoeing about like a fool, then you take your eye away for a moment and …
Bang.
Escape
Finree thought they were in some kind of shack. The floor was damp dirt, a chill draught across it making her shiver. The place smelled of fust and animals.
They had blindfolded her, and marched her lurching across the wet fields into the trees, crops tangling her feet, bushes clutching at her dress. It was a good thing she had been wearing her riding boots or she would probably have ended up barefoot. She had heard fighting behind them, she thought. Aliz had kept screaming for a while, her voice getting more and more hoarse, but eventually stopped. It changed nothing. They had crossed water on a creaking boat. Maybe over to the north side of the river. They had been shoved in here, heard a door wobble shut and the clattering of a bar on the outside.
And here they had been left, in the darkness. To wait for who knew what.
As Finree slowly got her breath back the pain began to creep up on her. Her scalp burned, her head thumped, her neck sent vicious stings down between her shoulders whenever she tried to turn her head. But no doubt she was a great deal better off than most who had been trapped in that inn.
She wondered if Hardrick had made it to safety, or if they had ridden him down in the fields, his useless message never delivered. She kept seeing that major’s face as he stumbled sideways with blood running from his broken head, so very surprised. Meed, fumbling at the bubbling wound in his neck. All dead. All of them.
She took a shuddering breath and forced the thought away. She could not think of it any more than a tightrope walker could think about the ground. ‘You have to look forward,’ she remembered her father telling her, as he plucked another of her pieces from the squares board. ‘Concentrate on what you can change.’
Aliz had been sobbing ever since the door shut. Finree wanted quite badly to slap her, but her hands were tied. She was reasonably sure they would not get out of this by sobbing. Not that she had any better ideas.
‘Quiet,’ Finree hissed. ‘Quiet, please, I need to think. Please. Please.’
The sobbing stuttered back to ragged whimpering. That was worse, if anything.
‘Will they kill us?’ squeaked Aliz’ voice, along with a slobbering snort. ‘Will they murder us?’
‘No. They would have done it already.’
‘Then what will they do with us?’
The question sat between them like a bottomless abyss, with nothing but their echoing breath to fill it. Finree managed to twist herself up to sitting, gritting her teeth at the pain in her neck. ‘We have to think, do you understand? We have to look forward. We have to try and escape.’
‘How?’ Aliz whimpered.
‘Any way we can!’ Silence. ‘We have to try. Are your hands free?’
‘No.’
Finree managed to worm her way across the floor, dress sliding over the dirt until her back hit the wall, grunting with the effort. She shifted herself along, fingertips brushing crumbling plaster, damp stone.
‘Are you there?’ squeaked Aliz.
‘Where else would I be?’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Trying to get my hands free.’ Something tugged at Finree’s waist, cloth ripped. She wormed her shoulder blades up the wall, following the caught material with her fingers. A rusted bracket. She rubbed away the flakes between finger and thumb, felt a jagged point underneath, a sudden surge of hope. She pulled her wrists apart, struggling to find the metal with the cords that held them.
‘If you get your hands free, what then?’ came Aliz’ shrill voice.
‘Get yours free,’ grunted Finree through gritted teeth. ‘Then feet.’
‘Then what? What about the door? There’ll be guards, won’t there? Where are we? What do we do if—’
‘I don’t know!’ She forced her voice down. ‘I don’t know. One battle at a time.’ Sawing away at the bracket. ‘One battle at a—’ Her hand slipped and she lurched back, felt the metal leave a burning cut down her arm.
‘Ah!’
‘What?’
‘Cut myself. Nothing. Don’t worry.’
‘Don’t worry? We’ve been captured by the Northmen! Savages! Did you see—’
‘Don’t worry about the cut, I meant! And yes, I saw it all.’ And she had to concentrate on what she could change. Whether her hands were free or not was challenge enough. Her legs were burning from holding her up against the wall, she could feel the greasy wetness of blood on her fingers, of sweat on her face. Her head was pounding, agony in her neck with every movement of her shoulders. She wriggled the cord against that piece of rusted metal, back and forward, back and forward, grunting with frustration. ‘Damn, bloody— Ah!’
Like that it came free. She dragged her blindfold off and tossed it away. She could hardly see more without it. Chinks of light around the door, between the planks. Cracked walls glistening with damp, floor scattered with muddy straw. Aliz was kneeling a stride or two away, dress covered in dirt, bound hands limp in her lap.
Finree jumped over to her, since her ankles were still tied, and knelt down. She tugged off Aliz’ blindfold, took both of her hands and pressed them in hers. Spoke slowly, looking her right in her pink-rimmed eyes. ‘We will escape. We must. We will.’ Aliz nodded, mouth twisting into a desperately hopeful smile for a moment. Finree peered down at her wrists, numb fingertips tugging at the knots, tongue pressed between her teeth as she prised at them with her broken nails—
‘How does he know I have them?’ Finree went cold. Or even colder. A voice, speaking Northern, and heavy footsteps, coming closer. She felt Aliz frozen in the dark, not even breathing.
‘He has his ways, apparently.’
‘His ways can sink in the dark places of the world for all I care.’ It was the voice of the giant. That soft, slow voice, but it had anger in it now. ‘The women are mine.’
‘He only wants one.’ The other sounded like his throat was full of grit, his voice a grinding whisper.
‘Which one?’
‘The brown-haired one.’
An angry snort. ‘No. I had in mind she would give me children.’ Finree’s eyes went wide. Her breath crawled in her throat. They were talking about her. She went at the knot on Aliz’ wrists with twice the urgency, biting at her lip.
‘How many children do you need?’ came the whispering voice.
‘Civilised children. After the Union fashion.’
‘What?’
‘You heard me. Civilised children.’
‘Who eat with a fork and that? I been to Styria. I been to the Union. Civilisation ain’t all it’s made out to be, believe me.’
‘A pause. ‘Is it true they have holes there in which a man can shit, and the turds are carried away?’
‘So what? Shit is still shit. It all ends up somewhere.’
‘I want civilisation. I want civilised children.’
‘Use the yellow-haired one.’
‘She pleases my eye less. And she is a coward. She does nothing but cry. The brown-haired one killed one of my men. She has bones. Children get their courage from the mother. I will not have cowardly children.’
