Before They Are Hanged tfl-2

by Joe Abercrombie

  Dow only smiled. “That’s my point, big lad, that’s just my point. We used to be something, each one of us. Named Men. Known men. Feared men. I remember my brother telling me that there ain’t no better man than Harding Grim with bow nor blade, no better man in all the North. Steadiest damn hand in the whole Circle of the World! How about that, eh, Grim?”

  “Uh,” said Grim.

  Dow nodded his head. “Exactly what I’m saying. Now look at us. We ain’t so much rolled downhill as fell off a bloody cliff! Running errands for these Southerners? These fucking women in men’s trousers? These damn salad-eaters with their big words and their thin little swords?”

  Dogman shifted in his saddle, uncomfortable. “That West knows what he’s about.”

  “That West!” sneered Dow. “He knows his arse from his mouth, and in that he’s a damn stretch better than the rest, but he’s soft as pig fat, and you know it. Got no bones in him at all! None of ’em have! I’d be shocked to my roots if the better part of ’em have ever seen a skirmish. You reckon they’d stand a charge from Bethod’s Carls?” He snorted hard laughter to himself. “Now there’s a joke!”

  “It can’t be denied they’re a piss-weak crowd,” muttered Tul, and the Dogman couldn’t very well disagree. “Half of ’em are too hungry to lift a weapon, let alone swing one with some fire, if they could even work out how. All the good ones went north to fight Bethod, leaving us here with the scrapings from the pot.”

  “Scrapings from a piss-pot, I’m thinking. What about you, Threetrees?” called Dow. “The Rock of Uffrith, eh? You were the spike up Bethod’s arse for six months, a hero to every right-thinking man in the North! Rudd Threetrees! There’s a man carved out of stone! There’s a man who never backs down! You want honour? You want dignity? You want to know what a man should be? Look no fucking further! What do you make of all this, eh? Running errands! Checking these bogs for Bethod where we all know he ain’t! Work fit for boys and we’re lucky to get it, I suppose?”

  Threetrees pulled up his horse and turned it slowly round. He sat in his saddle, hunched up, tired looking, and he stared at Dow for a minute. “Open your ears and listen for once,” he said, “ ’cause I don’t want to be telling you this every mile we go. The world ain’t how I’d like it in all kind o’ ways. Ninefingers has gone back to the mud. Bethod’s made himself King of the Northmen. The Shanka are fixing to come swarming over the mountains. I’ve walked too far, and fought too long, and heard enough shit from you to fill a lifetime, and all at an age when I should have my feet up with sons to take care o’ me. So you can see I got bigger problems than that life hasn’t turned out the way you hoped. You can harp on the past all you please, Dow, like some old woman upset cause her tits used to stay up by themselves, or you can shut your fucking hole and help me get on with things.”

  He gave each one of ’em a look in the eye, and the Dogman felt a touch shamed for doubting him. “As for checking for Bethod where he ain’t, well, Bethod’s never been one to turn up where he’s supposed to be. Scouting’s the task we’ve been given, and scouting’s the task I mean to get done.” He leaned forward in his saddle. “So how’s this for a fucking formula? Mouth shut. Eyes open.” And he turned and nudged his horse on through the trees.

  Dow took a deep breath. “Fair enough, chief, fair enough. It’s just a shame is all. That’s what I’m saying. Just a shame.”

  “There’s three of ’em,” said Dogman. “Northmen, for certain, but hard to tell their clan. Being as they’re down here, I’m guessing they follow Bethod.”

  “More ’n likely,” said Tul. “Seems that’s the fashion these days.”

  “Just three?” asked Threetrees. “No reason for Bethod to have three men on their own all the way out here. Must be more nearby.”

  “Let’s deal with the three,” growled Dow, “and get to the rest later. I came here to fight.”

  “You came here ’cause I dragged you here,” snapped Threetrees. “You was all for turning back an hour ago.”

  “Uh,” said Grim.

  “We can get around ’em if we need to.” Dogman pointed through the cold woods. “They’re up on the slope there, in the trees. No trouble to get around ’em.”

  Threetrees looked up at the sky, pink and grey through the branches, and shook his head. “No. We’re losing the light, and I wouldn’t like leaving ’em behind us in the dark. Since we’re here, and since they’re here, we’d best deal with ’em. Weapons it is.” He squatted down, talking quiet. “Here’s how we’ll do it. Dogman, get round and above, up on that slope there. Take the one on the left when you hear the signal. You follow me? The one on the left. And best not to miss.”

  “Aye,” said Dogman, “on the left.” Not missing more or less went without saying.

  “Dow, you slide in quiet and take the middle.”

  “The middle,” growled Dow. “He’s done.”

  “That leaves one for you, Grim.” Grim nodded without looking up, rubbing at his bow with a rag. “Nice and clean, boys. I don’t want to be putting one o’ you in the mud over this. Places, then.”

  The Dogman found a good spot up above Bethod’s three scouts and watched from behind a tree trunk. Seemed like he’d done this a hundred times, but it never got any easier on the nerves. Probably just as well. It’s when it gets easy that a man makes mistakes.

  Dogman was watching for him, so he just caught sight of Dow in the fading light, slithering up through the brush, eyes fixed ahead on his task. He was getting close now, real close. Dogman nocked an arrow and took an aim at the one on the left, breathing slow to keep his hands steady. It was then that he realised. Now he was on the other side, the one that had been on the left was on the right. So which one should he shoot?

  He cursed to himself, struggling to remember what Threetrees said. Get around and take the one on the left. Worst thing of all would have been to do nothing, so he aimed up at the one on his left and hoped for the best.

  He heard Threetrees call from down below, sounding like a bird out in the woods. Dow gathered himself to jump. Dogman let his arrow fly. It thudded into the back of his task just as Grim’s arrow stuck him in the front, and Dow seized hold of the middle one and stabbed him from behind. That left one of ’em untouched, and very surprised-looking.

  “Shit,” whispered the Dogman.

  “Help!” screamed the last of ’em, before Dow jumped on him. They rolled in the leaves, grunting and thrashing. Dow’s arm went up and down—once, twice, three times, then he stood up, glaring through the trees and looking mighty annoyed. Dogman was just shrugging his shoulders when he heard a voice behind him.

  “What?”

  Dogman froze, cold all over. Another one, out in the bushes, not ten strides away. He reached for an arrow and nocked it, real quiet, then turned slowly round. He saw two of ’em, and they saw him, and his mouth went sour as old beer. They all stared. Dogman aimed at the bigger one and pulled the string right back.

  “No!” he shouted. The arrow thudded into his chest and he groaned and stumbled, fell down on his knees. Dogman dropped his bow and made a snatch at his knife, but he hadn’t got it drawn before the other one was on him. They went down hard in the brush, and started rolling.

  Light, dark, light, dark. Over and over they went, down the slope, kicking and tearing and punching at each other. Dogman’s head smacked against something and he was down on his back, wrestling with this bastard. They hissed at each other, not words exactly, sounds like dogs make fighting. The man pulled his hand free and got a blade out from somewhere and Dogman caught his wrist before he could stab it home.

  He was pushing down with all his weight, both hands on the knife. Dogman was pushing the other way, both hands on his wrists, hard as he could, but not hard enough. The blade was coming down slowly, down towards Dogman’s face. He was staring at it cross-eyed, a tooth of bright metal not a foot from his nose.

  “Die, you fucker!” and it came down another inch. The Dogman’s shoulders, his a
rms, his hands were burning, running out of strength. Staring at his face. Stubble on his chin, yellow teeth, pock marks on his bent nose, hair hanging down around it. The point of the blade nudged closer. Dogman was dead, and there was no help for it.

  Snick.

  And his head wasn’t there any more. Blood washed over Dogman’s face, hot and sticky and reeking. The corpse went slack and he shoved it away, blood in his eyes, blood up his nose, blood in his mouth. He staggered up, gasping and choking and spitting.

  “Alright, Dogman. You’re alright.” Tul. Must’ve come up on them while they were struggling.

  “I’m still alive,” Dogman whispered, the way Logen used to when a fight was done. “Still alive.” By the dead, though, that had been a close thing.

  “They ain’t got too much in the way of gear,” Dow was saying, poking round the campsite. Cookpot on the fire, weapons and such like, but not much food. Not enough to be all alone out there in the woods.

  “Scouts maybe,” said Threetrees. “Outriders for some bigger band?”

  “Reckon they must be,” said Dow.

  Threetrees slapped his hand down on the Dogman’s shoulder. “You alright?”

  He was still busy trying to rub the blood off his face. “Aye, I think so.” Bit shaky still, but that would settle. “Cuts and scrapes, I reckon. Nothing I’ll die of.”

  “Good, ’cause I can’t spare you. Why don’t you take a creep up through them trees and have a look-see, while we clear up this mess here? Find who these bastards were scouting for.”

  “Right enough,” said the Dogman, sucking in a big breath and blowing it out. “Right enough.”

  “Stupid bloody job, eh, Dow?” whispered Threetrees. “Work fit for boys and we’re lucky to get it? What do you say now?”

  “Could be I made a mistake.”

  “A big one,” said the Dogman.

  There were a hundred fires burning down there on the dark slopes, a hundred fires and more. There were men down there too, it hardly needed saying. Thralls mostly, lightly armed, but plenty of Carls as well. Dogman could see the last light of the day glinting on their spear tips, and their shield-rims, and their mail coats, polished up and ready for a fight, clustered round close to the flapping standards of each clan’s chieftain. Lots of standards. Twenty of ’em, or thirty even, at a quick count. The Dogman had never seen more than ten together before.

  “Biggest army there’s ever been out of the North,” he muttered.

  “Aye,” said Threetrees. “All fighting for Bethod, and not five days’ ride from the Southerners.” He pointed down at one of the banners. “That Littlebone’s standard down there?”

  “Aye,” growled Dow, and spat into the brush. “That’s his mark alright. I got scores with that bastard.”

  “There’s a world o’ scores down there,” said Threetrees. “That’s Pale-as-Snow’s banner, and Whitesides, and Crendel Goring’s over by them rocks. That’s some bloody company. Them as went over to Bethod near the beginning. All grown fat on it now, I reckon.”

  “What about them ones?” asked the Dogman, pointing out at some that he didn’t recognise—evil-looking signs, all leather and bones. Looked like hillmen’s marks to him, maybe. “That ain’t Crummock-i-Phail’s standard, is it?”

  “Nah! He’d never have kneeled to Bethod or anyone else. That mad bastard’ll still be up there in the mountains somewhere, calling to the moon and all the rest.”

  “Less Bethod done for him,” grunted Dow.

  Threetrees shook his head. “Doubt it. Canny bastard, that Crummock. Been holding Bethod off for years, up in the High Places. He knows all the ways, they say.”

  “Whose signs are they then?” asked Dogman.

  “Don’t know, could be some boys from out east, past the Crinna. There’s some strange folk out that way. You know any o’ them banners, Grim?”

  “Aye,” said Grim, but that was all he said.

  “Don’t hardly matter whose signs they are,” muttered Dow, “just look at the numbers of ’em. There’s half the fucking North down there.”

  “And the worst half,” said Dogman. He was looking at Bethod’s sign, set up in the middle of the host. A red circle daubed on black hides, an acre of ’em, it looked like, big as a field, mounted on a tall pine trunk, flapping evil in the wind. Huge great thing. “Wouldn’t fancy carrying it,” he muttered.

  Dow slithered over and leaned in close. “Might be that we could sneak in there in the dark,” he whispered. “Might be we could sneak in and put a blade in Bethod.”

  They all looked at each other. It was a terrible risk, but Dogman had no doubts it was worth the trying. Wasn’t a one of them hadn’t dreamed of sending Bethod back to the mud.

  “Put a blade in him, the bastard,” muttered Tul, and he had a smile right across his face.

  “Uh,” grunted Grim.

  “That’s a task worth doing,” hissed Dow. “That’s real work!”

  Dogman nodded, looking down at all them fires. “No doubt.” Noble work. Work for Named Men like them, or like they used to be, maybe. There’d be some songs about that, alright. Dogman’s blood was rushing at the thought, skin prickling on his hands, but Threetrees was having none of it.

  “No. We can’t risk it. We got to go back and tell the Union. Tell ’em they got guests coming. Bad guests, and in numbers.” He tugged at his beard, and Dogman could tell he didn’t like it, backing off. None of ’em did, but they knew he was right, even Dow. Chances were they’d never get to Bethod, and if they did they’d never get out.

  “We got to go back,” said Dogman.

  “Fair enough,” said Dow. “We go back. Shame though.”

  “Aye,” said Threetrees. “Shame.”

  Long Shadows

  “By the dead.”

  Ferro said nothing, but for the first time since Logen met her, the scowl had slipped off. Her face was slack, mouth hanging slightly open. Luthar, on the other hand, was grinning like a fool.

  “You ever see anything like that?” he shouted over the noise, pointing out at it with a trembling hand.

  “There is nothing else like that,” said Bayaz.

  Logen had to admit that he’d been wondering what all the fuss was about when it came to crossing a river. Some of the bigger ones in the North could be a problem, especially in the wrong season and with a lot of gear to carry. But if there was no bridge, you found a good ford, held your weapons over your head, and sloshed across. Might take a while for your boots to dry out, and you had to keep your eyes well opened for an ambush, but otherwise there was nothing much to fear from a river. Good place to fill your water-skin.

  Filling your skin at the Aos would have been a dangerous business, at least without a hundred strides of rope.

  Logen had once stood on the cliffs near Uffrith, and watched the waves crash against the rocks far below, the sea stretching away, grey and foaming out of sight. A dizzy, and a humbling, and a worrying place to stand. The feeling at the brink of the great river’s canyon was much the same, except that a quarter mile away or so another cliff rose up from the water. The far bank, if you could use the word about a towering rock face.

  He shuffled up gingerly to the very edge, prodding at the soft ground with the toes of his boots, and peered over the brink. Not a good idea. The red earth overhung slightly, bound up with white grass roots, and then the jagged rocks dropped away, almost sheer. Where the frothing water slapped against them, far below, it sent great plumes of bright spray into the air, clouds of damp mist that Logen could almost feel on his face. Tufts of long grass clung to the cracks and the ledges, and birds flitted between them, hundreds of small white birds. Logen could just make out their twittering calls over the mighty rumble of the river.

  He thought on being dropped into that thundering weight of dark water—sucked, and whirled, and ripped around like a leaf in the storm. He swallowed, and shuffled cautiously back from the edge, looking around for something to cling on to. He felt tiny, and weightless,
as if a strong gust of wind might snatch him away. He could almost feel the water moving through his boots, the surging, rolling, unstoppable power of it, making the very earth tremble.

  “So you can see why a bridge might be such a good idea!” shouted Bayaz in his ear.

  “How can you even build a bridge across that?”

  “At Aostum the river splits in three, and the canyon is much less deep. The Emperor’s architects built islands, and made their bridges of many small arches. Even so, it took them twelve years to build. The bridge at Darmium is the work of Kanedias himself, a gift to his brother Juvens when they were yet on good terms. It crosses the river in a single span. How he did it, none now can say.” Bayaz turned for the horses. “Get the others, we should keep moving!”

  Ferro was already walking back from the brink. “So much rain.” She looked over her shoulder, frowned and shook her head.

  “Don’t get rivers like that where you come from, eh?”

  “Out in the Badlands, water is the most precious thing you can have. Men kill over a bottle of it.”

  “That’s where you were born? The Badlands?” A strange name for a place, but it sounded about right for her.

  “There are no births in the Badlands, pink. Only deaths.”

  “Harsh land, eh? Where were you born, then?”

  She scowled. “What do you care?”

  “Just trying to be friendly.”

  “Friends!” she sneered, brushing past him towards the horses.

  “Why? You got so many out here you couldn’t use another?”

  She stopped, half turned, and looked at him through narrowed eyes. “My friends don’t last, pink.”

  “Nor do mine, but I reckon I’ll take the risk if you will.”

  “Alright,” she said, but there was nothing friendly in her face. “The Gurkish conquered my home when I was a child, and they took me for a slave. They took all the children.”

  “A slave?”

  “Yes, fool, a slave! Bought and sold like meat by the butcher! Owned by someone else, and they do as they please with you, like they would with a goat, or a dog, or the dirt in their gardens! That what you want to know, friend?”