Leo let himself be handled like a mannequin by a tailor. Or a dead body by an undertaker. Perhaps the most important trick he had learned was swallowing his pride and taking whatever help he could get.
Jurand frowned down as he did up the buttons of Leo’s jacket, quick and practised as any valet. “Their men look almost as much of a mess as ours. Almost. There were more desertions in the night.”
“Not such a bad thing,” murmured Leo. “Weed out anyone with doubts… about the new leadership…”
Jurand was so close Leo could smell him, leather and polish and horsehair and soap. He could hear his slow breath. Could see each hair of his long eyelashes, a tiny blemish on his cheek, his lips pressed together with concentration, but that little curl at the corner that he always used to have when they were together, before… everything that had happened.
It would’ve taken no effort at all to lean forwards and kiss him. It was almost more effort not to do it. Leo wondered what the roughness of his fresh-shaved jaw would feel like against Leo’s cheek. What his hair would feel like between Leo’s fingers. What his mouth would taste like—
Jurand looked up and their eyes met, and Leo froze, his breath held, his face tingling. “I… should have been there,” murmured Jurand. “At Stoffenbeck. If I’d been there—”
“I’m glad you weren’t. Glad you… weren’t hurt.” Leo thought of Antaup then, and Jin, and Bremer dan Gorst’s boots crunching across the ruined square. “I can’t afford… to lose you.” And he tore his prickling eyes away, lifting his chin so Jurand could fasten his top button. “You’ll be there this time,” he managed to say, his voice rough.
“I’ll always be there.” Did Jurand reach gently for Leo’s useless hand, as if to help him with that, too? Leo took it first and awkwardly stuffed it into the gap in his jacket, turning to the mirror with a forced smile. “How do I look?”
Jurand picked a speck of fluff from the braid on Leo’s chest and flicked it away. “As handsome as ever,” he said, softly.
“Lord Marshal Forest!” called Leo as he rode up. He could still ride well, at least, since the horse did most of the work. Gripping to the saddle made the stump of his leg ache, but he was damned if he’d let them strap him onto it. He considered wedging the reins in his teeth, decided that might be a bit informal, and tossed them over his saddle instead so he could hold out his hand, hoping his horse behaved.
The lord marshal, his uniform battle-stained, his scarred face weather-worn, his beard a grey riot, considered that hand with little enthusiasm and finally reached out to take it in a strong grip. “Young Lion.”
“It’s an honour to meet you. Really. Nothing teaches respect for a man like losing a battle to him. I only saw you from a distance, holding that ridge against Stour Nightfall. You just refused to be shifted. Quite a sight.”
“So was that charge of yours,” said Forest, grudgingly. “However it ended.”
“I’m hoping for a happier outcome this time around,” said Leo. “Between you and me, I’m running out of limbs at quite a rate.”
One of Forest’s frowning aides had a Union battle flag, and Leo was surprised at the bittersweet sting of nostalgia he felt at the sight of it, even dangling limp as a hanged man in the morning’s dewy chill. The blazing sun had been torn from the flagpoles of Adua, chiselled from the stonework, burned on cloth and paper a million times over. He wondered how many solar dinner sets had been destroyed since the Great Change.
“Corporal Tunny tells me we’re on the same side now,” said Forest.
“Thanks to the good graces of Victarine dan Teufel.” Or at any rate her low cunning.
“Wasn’t long ago you fought against the king,” grunted Forest. “Now you’re fighting for him?”
Leo puffed out his cheeks as he looked up at that flag. “Honestly, I can hardly remember what the world was like, before.” He shifted his left arm in his jacket, tried to work the fingers, winced at the numb aches
in his elbow. “I can hardly remember what it felt like not to be in pain. The reasons I fought against you… if there even were any good ones…
are burned off like morning mist.” He didn’t mention the chairs on the Closed Council he’d been offered. He’d got a lot better at judging what to say. And what to leave out. “The Great Change has to be changed back, at least some of the way, before the Union eats itself. That’ll have to be good enough.”
Forest’s shoulders sagged slightly. “Since we’re being honest, I’ll take all the help I can get. Your men look in pretty poor shape, though.”
Leo twisted around to look up the long rise, to where the People’s Army were drawn up across the road to Adua. They’d been an ill-disciplined mob when they descended on the capital and freed him from the House of Questions. They were far worse now. It would’ve been flattery to call their lines ragged. There were scarcely any lines at all.
“Terrible shape, poor bastards,” said Leo. “Hungry, tired, cold, poor. Above all, they’re sick. Sick of fighting, sick of Judge, sick of the whole bloody business.” He turned back to Forest, grinning. “All in all, I’d say they’re ready for the restoration of the monarchy.”
“And they’ll follow you?” asked one of Forest’s aides.
“They’ll follow anyone who feeds them,” said Jurand. “Especially if he points them in the direction of home.”
“We’ve weeded out the worst of the Burners,” said Leo, “and put loyal men in their place. But the truth is they don’t want to fight any more.” He nodded towards Forest’s tattered companies, drawn up on the rise ahead, no two the same size. “By the look of things, your men feel much the same.”
Forest’s turn to twist in his saddle and frown towards his crooked lines. When he turned back, he suddenly looked his age, weary and grey. “Reckon they might only have one more fight left in ’em.”
“Then let’s make it a good one,” said Leo, turning his horse. “Glaward, give the order! We’re marching for Adua!”
Break What They Love
The sun shone bright on the gatehouse roof, but Rikke felt an edge on the wind as Black Calder’s army spread out around the walls of Carleon. Most likely anyone feels a bit of a chill, though, watching thousands of men get ready to kill you.
“So here they are,” she murmured, lowering her eyeglass. “Looks like they’ve had a muddy old time on the way. State o’ these bastards.”
Shivers slowly nodded. “But the number of ’em, too.” He’d made quite an effort for the battle, with his mail gleaming and his war-horn at his belt, his grey hair bound back neat as a bride’s and his shield fresh-painted red with the sign of the Long Eye, the black boss its yawning pupil.
“Aye.” Rikke fumbled for a joke but couldn’t find one in easy reach. Specially with her stomach trying to climb up out of her mouth and make a run for it. More men and more kept spilling over the hills to the north, through the shadows crawling across the land from the fast-moving clouds above, forming slovenly lines in the fields around the city where the last patches of snow clung pale and dirty in the hollows.
No doubt there were a lot of the bastards. As many as Black Calder had brought to the Battle of Red Hill, maybe. A lot more than Rikke had been hoping for. Her own men looked sparse on the walkways atop Carleon’s walls. Nervous and lonely. Carls of Uffrith who’d served her father, far from home and with a leader who looked shakier every day.
Rikke had even less faith in her judgement than they did. She’d seen things, up in the hills, when the witch tattooed the runes around her eye. Splinters and fragments. Enough to take a guess at what was coming. But nowhere near enough to be sure.
“They’ve got ladders,” said Corleth, hair whipping about her clenched jaw, standard of the Long Eye whipping above her.
“Lot o’ ladders,” said Shivers.
“Lot of everything,” said Rikke. “Let’s hope they don’t have cannons!” She barked a laugh but nearly puked on it, had to awkwardly swallow an acrid little tickle in her
throat. “They don’t have cannons, do they? What’re those wagons?” She squinted through her eyeglass. “Are those… bones?”
“That’ll be Stand-i’-the-Barrows. Those boys from past the Crinna always had some funny notions. Stranger-Come-Knocking was wild for plumbing, as I recall.”
“Well, who wants to die at the hands of a man with no hobbies?” Rikke took a hard, cold breath and blew it out. One way or another, it’d get finished today. The scores that began when Scale Ironhand invaded the Protectorate, all those months ago. Scores way older than that, even. When her father told Black Calder he’d cut the bloody cross in him at the Battle of Osrung. When Black Calder killed Forley the Weakest years before. When her father and the Bloody-Nine fought for Bethod, and then against him, all across the North and back and left a trail of corpses both ways. One feud growing from another, blood flowing from blood, all settled today. Or maybe it was folly to think so. Maybe it’d just be new feuds started.
“I’m excited!” called Rikke, stretching up on tiptoes and forcing out a grin, like she knew just what was coming even if she was bubbling over with doubts. She clapped Corleth on the shoulder. She liked doing it. Her shoulders had a meaty, reassuring feel. “You excited?”
Corleth swallowed. “Honestly, I’m shitting myself.”
“Two ways of saying the same thing.” Rikke rubbed at her belly, tried to kick the aches out of her legs. “By the dead, that’s sore.”
“You all right?”
“Just the moon pains. Blood came last night.”
“Huh. Me, too.”
“Fancy that, our wombs have found a rhythm! Same thing happened with Isern.” And Rikke gave a wistful sigh. “Reckon it’s time to get Stour out of his cage.”
“Aye,” said Corleth, and she trotted to the steps.
Shivers was frowning out into the fields, sunlight glinting on his metal eye as the clouds shifted. “Doubt that’ll be the only blood that comes today,” he said.
Calder stood, hands on hips, glaring towards Carleon. The city he’d ruled the North from for twenty years. Had to hurt, having it stolen by a girl with a magic eye. Had to hurt, having to beg for the life of his only son.
But then, you reach a certain age, everything hurts.
“Clover,” he grunted, “I want you next to me.”
“’Course, Chief. Though battlefields do give me a rash.”
“We’ll all have to tolerate some discomforts today. Got a horse for you.”
“Grand,” said Clover, with heavy sarcasm.
He’d owned a horse once, long time ago, but only ’cause it was the type o’ thing folk expect a famous warrior to own. Didn’t think he’d ever ridden it. Except once, when he bought it, pretending he wasn’t scared witless he’d fall off, and only ’cause it was the type o’ thing folk expect someone to do when buying a horse. Rest of the time it just stood in a stable, looking sad, eating his hay and costing him money. Strange, how much of his time he’d spent worrying about what people expect. You’d have thought the one upside of being a famous warrior was doing whatever you pleased.
“We should attack,” said Stand-i’-the-Barrows, sitting in his bone-covered armour on his bone-covered horse. “Attack, attack, sweep over them, a black wave. Drive them into nothingness. Into hell.” That was pretty much the full range of his strategy. “Let’s not faff with the talk before. The talk before is always lies and boasting. Waste of your time. Waste of my time. Some day I will die. I wish to gather as many bones as I can first. They say the cities of the South go on for ever, people flooding through them like rivers. And all those people are full of bones. Every one of them.” He gave a dreamy smile. “I wish to visit those places.”
“They have my son,” said Calder, still glaring at the city. “Once I have him, you can have Carleon, and all the bones inside.”
Stand-i’-the-Barrows smiled wider. “That is acceptable.”
Clover glanced over at Sholla and found her staring back, unable to hide her horror. “You stay here wi’ Flick,” he muttered.
“Chief, I—”
“Stay here,” he said, looking her in the eye.
“Don’t worry,” said Downside. “I’ll look after ’em.”
“What a comfort.” Clover clambered up onto the horse he was borrowing. He found he liked it even less than he remembered. You forget how bloody high horses are. And it turned all the way around while he was leaning down to grab the reins.
Black Calder was having his own troubles getting mounted. He had to bounce a couple of times before he could haul himself into the saddle. He looked weak when he got there, and grey, and grim. Not much left of the handsome joker who nicked the North from under everyone’s noses. A man who’d lasted past his time. A man dragged back for one fight too many.
But then, one is one too many.
Clover had a low feeling as he rode out towards Carleon. As he frowned to the left, towards the great mass of Crinna bastards working themselves up for the bone harvest. As he frowned to the right, watching Calder’s Carls bring their many-coloured shield-wall forward across the sun-splashed fields. As he frowned straight ahead, towards the black battlements above the city’s gate. A feeling this’d all end badly.
But then, if you leave it long enough, what doesn’t end badly?
Rikke took a deep breath. By the dead, she needed to piss. She’d gone not long ago, but now she felt like she was bursting. Wouldn’t look too clever, that fearsome witch with the Long Eye, pissing herself on the battlements in full view of her two worst enemies and a hostile army. Still, her da had always said he near pissed himself in every fight. Hadn’t stopped him winning most of his.
“Here we go, then.” And she twisted her face into that knowing smile and swaggered up to the parapet. The very spot where the Bloody-Nine killed Bethod. Might be the stones she propped her hands on were the ones the first King of the Northmen got his brains smashed out on. She hoped the significance wasn’t lost on anyone as she leaned over, grinning down at the two-dozen riders before the gates.
Calder’s sign was there, red circle on black, and other famous standards, too. She spotted Jonas Clover loitering near the back. He looked troubled, and Rikke hardly blamed him. He was in some troubling company. No missing the bastards from beyond the Crinna. They were the ones with the paint and the bones. One in particular, grey-haired, grey-faced, grey eyes fixed on her, covered with bones head to toe, his helmet with the skull of some great horned animal on it. And in front of him, on a black horse, a lean man with a sharp face and a fine black fur about his shoulders.
“Black Calder!” she called. “Welcome back to Carleon!”
His mount was restless and he reined it savagely around, keeping his frown fixed on her all the while. “Rikke o’ the Long Eye!”
She tapped at her face. “The only one I’ve got. Who’s your clown?”
“Clown?”
“The joker with all the bones.”
“I am Stand-i’-the-Barrows, girl! Chieftain of a Hundred Tribes, lord of all the fen country from the Crinna to the sea, master of ten thousand spears! I am here to gather bones for my great barrow. Bones of man and woman, wolf and hawk. Bones of girl and boy, lamb and foal. Perhaps I will see how many bones I can cut from your body while you still live. It is a favoured pastime of mine.”
There was a silence, a cold wind blowing up, shaking the budding trees in the distance and sighing across the walls of Carleon. Rikke stuck her little finger in her ear, twisted it, pulled it out, examined the results and flicked them away. “Not very funny, is he?” she said.
“I’m funnier,” said Shivers.
“You’re funny ’cause no one expects laughs from a man with a metal eye, though.” She waved down at Stand-i’-the-Barrows. “If you’re going to wear the motley you’d better be ready for fun! But let’s not drag this out, I’ve got my monthly bleed on and could do with changing my cloth. If gore’s your thing I can toss you down the old one.”
Stand-i’-the-Barrows
curled back his lips to spit some answer but Calder got in first. “Our mutual friend, Jonas Clover—”
“I’m not sure Jonas Clover’s anyone’s friend but his own,” said Rikke.
The man in question gave a sheepish grin. “Just trying to get through the day is all.”
“He tells me you’re willing to make a trade,” called Calder. “My son for half the North. That true?”
“Could be.” Rikke leaned on the parapet, arms crossed, hands flopping, necklace dangling, and cast an eye over all those men spreading out around Carleon. “But you brought an awful lot of friends through an awful lot of mud just so we could strike a bargain.”
“My father always said, ‘Speak by all means, but the words of an armed man ring that much sweeter.’ Thought I’d make my words ring as sweetly as I could.”
“They do say you were known for charming the ladies once. Bring the Great Wolf where his da can see him!”
Shivers had Stour under one arm, holding him up and dragging him forwards at once, his hands tied behind him and his bare feet scuffing uselessly. He’d lost half his weight and all his pride, lips cracked, eyes sunken, squinting up at the sun like he’d never seen it before. Hadn’t been out of that cage in Skarling’s Hall for months, so the sky was coming as quite the shock to him.
“Here he is!” called Rikke as Shivers hauled Stour up to the parapet where the whole valley could get a good look. “The grandson of Bethod! The bane of Scale Ironhand! The King of the Northmen in all his glory! Stour Nightfall!”
And she thrust out an arm towards the ill-smelling cripple who was once the terror of the North. There was a pause while those below took in the state of him and wondered if it could truly be the same man.
Seemed like there might be some damp glinting in Calder’s eyes, but maybe it was the wind. “You all right, son?” he croaked out.
The Wisdom of Crowds Page 35