They traded blows, lightning quick. Whirrun’s fist sank into Javre’s ribs with a thud but she barely seemed to notice, letting go three quick punches and catching him full on the jaw with the last. He did not waver, only took a quick step back, already set and watchful.
‘You are strong,’ he said. ‘For a woman.’
‘I will show you how strong.’
She lunged at him with a vicious flurry of blows but caught only air as he jerked this way and that, slippery as a fish in the river for all his size. Meat slapped as Javre caught his counters on her forearms, growling through gritted teeth, shrugged off a cuff on her forehead and caught Whirrun’s arm. In a flash she dropped to one knee, heaved him over her head and into the air, but he tucked himself up neat as Shev used to when she tumbled in that travelling show, hit the turf with his shoulder, rolled and came up on his feet, still smiling.
‘Every day should be a new lesson,’ he said.
‘You are quick,’ said Javre. ‘For a man.’
‘I will show you how quick.’
He came at her, feinted high, ducked under her raking heel and caught her other calf, lifting her effortlessly to fling her down. But Javre had already hooked her leg around the back of his neck and dragged him down with her. They tumbled in a tangle of limbs to the muddy ground, rolling about with scant dignity, squirming and snapping, punching and kneeing, spitting and snarling.
‘This is hell.’ Shev gave a long groan and looked off into the mist. ‘This is …’ She paused, heart sinking even lower. ‘You two,’ she muttered, slowly standing. ‘You two!’
‘We are …’ snarled Javre as she kneed Whirrun in the ribs.
‘A little …’ snarled Whirrun as he butted her in the mouth.
‘Busy!’ snarled Javre as they rolled struggling through a puddle.
‘You may want to stop,’ growled Shev. Figures were emerging from the mist. First three. Then five. Now seven men, one of them on a horse. ‘I think perhaps Bethod’s agents have arrived.’
‘Arse!’ Whirrun scrambled free of Javre, hurrying over to his sword and striking a suitably impressive pose with his hand on the hilt, only slightly spoiled by his whole bare side being smeared with mud. Shev swallowed and let the dagger drop into her hand once again. It spent a lot more time there than she’d like.
The first to take full shape from the mist was a nervous-looking boy, couldn’t have been more than fifteen, who half-drew his bow with somewhat wobbly hands, arrow pointed roughly in Whirrun’s direction. Next came a selection of Northmen, impressively bearded if you liked that kind of thing, which Shev didn’t, and even more impressively armed, if you liked that kind of thing, which Shev didn’t either.
‘Evening, Flood,’ said Whirrun, dabbing some blood from his split lip.
‘Whirrun,’ said the one who Shev presumed to be the leader, leaning on his spear as if he’d walked a long way.
Whirrun began to conspicuously count the Northmen with a wagging finger, his lips silently moving.
‘There are seven,’ said Shev.
‘Ah!’ said Whirrun. ‘You’re right, she’s a quick thinker. Seven! I’m touched Bethod can spare so many, just for me. Thought he’d need every man, what with this war against the Southerners. I mean to say, they call me mad, but this war? Now that’s mad.’
‘Can’t say I disagree,’ said Flood, combing at his beard with his dirty fingers, ‘but I don’t make the choices.’
‘Some men don’t have the bones to make the choices.’
‘And some men are just tired of their choices always turning out the wrong ones. I know being difficult comes natural to you, Whirrun, but could you try not to be just for a little while? Bethod’s King of the Northmen, now. He can’t have people just going their own way.’
‘I am Whirrun of Bligh,’ said Whirrun, puffing up his considerable chest. ‘My way is the only way I go.’
‘Oh, God,’ muttered Shev. ‘He’s the male Javre. He’s the male you, Javre!’
‘He is certainly in the neighbourhood,’ said Javre, with a note of grudging appreciation, flicking away some sheep’s droppings which had become stuck in her hair in the struggle. ‘Why does only one of you have a horse?’
The Northmen glanced at each other as though this was the source of some friction between them.
‘There’s a war on,’ grunted one with shitty teeth. ‘Not that many horses about.’
Shev snorted. ‘Don’t I know it. You think I’d be walking if I didn’t have to?’
‘It’s my horse,’ said Flood. ‘But Kerric’s got a bad leg so I said he could borrow it.’
‘We’ve all got bad legs,’ grunted a big one with an entirely excessive beard and an axe even more so.
‘Now is probably not the time to reopen discussion of who gets the horse,’ snapped Flood. ‘The dead know we’ve argued over that particular issue enough, don’t you bloody think?’ With a gesture, he started the men spreading out to the right and left. ‘Who the hell are the women anyway, Whirrun?’
Shev rolled her eyes as Javre did her own puffing up. ‘I am Javre, Lioness of Hoskopp.’
Flood raised one brow. ‘And your servant?’
Shev gave a weary groan. ‘Oh, for—’
‘She’s not a servant, she’s a henchman,’ said Whirrun. ‘Or … henchwoman? Is that a word?’
‘Partner!’ snapped Shev.
‘No, no.’ Javre shook her head. ‘Partner? No.’
‘It really doesn’t matter,’ said Flood, starting to become impatient. ‘The point is Bethod wants to talk to you, Whirrun, and you’ll be coming with us even if we have to hurt you—’
‘One moment.’ Javre held up her big hand. ‘This man and I are in the midst of resolving a previous disagreement. You can hurt whatever is left of him when I am done.’
‘By the dead.’ Flood pressed thumb and forefinger into his eyes and rubbed them fiercely. ‘Nothing’s ever easy. Why is nothing ever easy?’
‘Believe me,’ said Shev, tightening her grip on her knife, ‘I feel your pain. You were going to fight him for nothing, now you’re going to fight for him for nothing?’
‘We stand where the Goddess puts us,’ growled Javre, knuckles whitening where she gripped her sword.
Flood gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Whirrun, there’s no call for bloodshed here—’
‘I’m with him,’ said Shev, holding up a finger.
‘—but you’re really not giving me much of a choice. Bethod wants you in front of Skarling’s chair, alive or dead.’
Whirrun grinned. ‘Shoglig told me the time of my death, and it is not here, and it is not—’
A bowstring went. It was that boy with the wobbly hands, looking as surprised he’d let fly as anyone. Whirrun caught the arrow. Just snatched it from the air, neat as you like.
‘Wait!’ roared Flood, but it was too late. The man with the big beard rushed at Whirrun, roaring, spraying spit, swinging his axe. At the last moment, Whirrun calmly stepped around the Father of Swords so the axe-haft clanged into its sheathed blade and stabbed the bearded man in the neck with the arrow. He dropped spluttering.
By then everyone was shouting.
For someone who hated fights, Shev surely ended up in a lot of the bastards, and if she’d learned one thing it was that you’ve got to commit. Try your damndest to negotiate, to compromise, to put it off, but when the time comes to fight, you’ve got to commit. So she flung her knife.
If she’d thought about it, Shev might have figured that she didn’t want to weigh down her conscience any more than she had to, and killing a horse wasn’t as bad as killing a man. If she’d thought about it more, she might have considered that the man had chosen to be there while the horse hadn’t, so probably deserved it more. But if she’d thought about it even more, she might have considered that the man probably hadn’t chosen to be there in any meaningful sense any more than Shev had herself, but had been rolled along through life like a stone on the riverbed according to his situation,
acquaintances, character and bad luck without too much chance of changing anything.
But folk who spend a lot of time thinking in fights don’t tend to live through them, so Shev left the thinking for later and threw at the easiest target to hit.
The knife stuck into the horse’s hindquarters and its eyes bulged. It reared, stumbled, bucked and tottered, and Shev had to scramble out of the way while the rider tore desperately at the reins. The horse plunged and kicked, the saddle-girth tore and the saddle slid from the horse’s back as it toppled sideways, rolled over its rider, bringing his despairing wail to a sharp end, then slipped thrashing over the rocky verge of the canyon and out of sight.
So Shev ended up with horse and rider on her conscience. But the sad fact was, only the winners got to regret what they did in a fight, and right now Shev had other worries. Namely, a man with the shittiest teeth she ever saw and a hell of an intimidating mace. Why was he grinning? God, if she had those teeth, you’d have needed a crowbar to get her lips apart.
‘Come here,’ he snarled at her.
‘I’d rather not,’ Shev hissed back.
She scrambled out of the way, damp stones scattering from her heels, the screech, crash and clatter of combat almost forgotten in the background. Scrambling, always scrambling, from one disaster to another. Often at the edge of an unknowable canyon, at least a metaphorical one. And, as always, she could never quite get away.
The shitty-toothed maceman caught her collar with his free hand, jerking it so half the buttons ripped off and driving her back so her head cracked on rock. She stabbed at him with her other knife but the blade only scraped his mail and twisted out of her hand. A moment later, his fist sank into her gut and drove her breath out in a shuddering wheeze.
‘Got yer,’ he growled in her face, his breath alone almost enough to make her lose consciousness. He lifted his mace.
She raised one finger to point over his shoulder. ‘Behind you …’
‘You think I’m falling for—’
There was a loud thudding sound and the Father of Swords split him from his shoulder down to his guts, gore spraying in Shev’s face as if it had been flung from a bucket.
‘Urrgh!’ She slithered from under the man’s carcass, desperately trying to kick free of the slaughterhouse slops that had been suddenly dumped in her lap. ‘God,’ she whimpered, struggling up, trembling and spitting, clothes soaked with blood, hair dripping with blood, mouth, eyes, nose full of blood. ‘Oh, God.’
‘Look on the sunny side,’ said Whirrun. ‘At least it’s not your own.’
Bethod’s men were scattered about the muddy grass, hacked, twisted, leaking. The only one still standing was Flood.
‘Now, look,’ he said, licking his lips, spear levelled as Javre stalked towards him. ‘I didn’t want things to go this way—’
She whipped her sword from its scabbard and Shev flinched, two blinding smears left across her sight. The top part of Flood’s spear dropped off, then the bottom, leaving him holding a stick about the length of Shev’s foot. He swallowed, then tossed it on the ground and held up his hands.
‘Get you gone back to your master, Flood,’ said Whirrun, ‘and thank the dead for your good luck with every step. Tell him Whirrun of Bligh dances to his own tune.’
With wide eyes Flood nodded, and began to back away.
‘And if you see Curnden Craw over there, tell him I haven’t forgotten he owes me three chickens!’
‘Chickens?’ muttered Javre.
‘A debt is a debt,’ said Whirrun, leaning nonchalantly on the Father of Swords, his bare white body now spattered with blood as well as mud. ‘Talking of which, we still have business between us.’
‘We do.’ She looked Whirrun slowly up and down with lips thoughtfully pursed. It was a look Shev had seen before, and she felt her heart sink even lower, if that was possible. ‘But another way of settling it now occurs to me.’
‘Uh … uh … uh …’
Shev knelt shivering beside a puddle of muddy rainwater, muttering every curse she knew, which was many, struggling to mop the gore from between her tits with a rag torn from a dead man’s shirt, and trying desperately not to notice Javre’s throaty grunting coming from behind the rock. It was like trying not to notice someone hammering nails into your head.
‘Uh … uh … uh …’
‘This is hell,’ she whimpered, staring at her bedraggled reflection in the muddy, bloody puddle. ‘This is hell.’
What had she done to deserve being there? Marooned in this loveless, sunless, cultureless, comfortless place. A place salted by the tears of the righteous, as her mother used to say. Her hair plastered to her clammy head like bloody seaweed to a rotting boat. Her chafed skin on which the gooseflesh could hardly be told from the scaly chill-rash. Her nose endlessly running, rimmed with sore pink from the wiping. Her sunken stomach growling, her bruised neck throbbing, her blistered feet aching, her withered dreams crumbling, her—
‘Uh … uh … uh …’ Javre’s grunting was mounting in volume, and added to it now was a long, steady growling from Whirrun. ‘Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrr …’
Shev found herself wondering what exactly they were up to, slapped the side of her head as though she could knock the thought out. She should be concentrating on feeling sorry for herself! Think of all she’d lost!
The Smoke House. Well, that hadn’t been so great. Her friends in Westport. Well, she’d never had any she’d have trusted with a copper. Severard. No doubt he’d be far better off with his mother in Adua, however upset he’d been about it. Carcolf. Carcolf had betrayed her, damn it! God, those hips, though. How could you stay angry at someone with hips like that?
‘Uh … uh … uh …’
‘Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrr …’
She slithered back into her shirt, which her efforts at washing had turned from simply bloody to bloody, filthy and clinging with freezing water. She shuddered with disgust as she wiped blood out of her ear, out of her nose, out of her eyebrows.
She’d tried to do small kindnesses where she could, hadn’t she? Coppers to beggars when she could afford it, and so on? And, for the rest, she’d had good reasons, hadn’t she? Or had she just made good excuses?
‘Oh, God,’ she muttered to herself, pushing the greasy-chill hair out of her face.
The horrible fact was, she’d got no worse than she deserved. Quite possibly better. If this was hell, she’d earned every bit of it. She took a deep breath and blew it out so her lips flapped.
‘Uh … uh … uh!’
‘Rrrrrrrrrrr!’
Shev hunched her shoulders, staring back towards the bridge.
She paused, heart sinking even lower than before. Right into her blistered feet.
‘You two,’ muttered Shev, slowly standing, fumbling with her shirt-buttons. ‘You two!’
‘We are …’ came Javre’s strangled voice.
‘A little …’ groaned Whirrun.
‘Busy!’
‘You may want to fucking stop!’ screeched Shev, sliding out a knife and hiding it behind her arm. She realised she’d got her buttons in the wrong holes, a great tail of flapping-wet shirt plastered to her leg. But it was a little late to smarten up. Once again, there were figures coming from the mist. From the direction of the bridge. First one. Then two. Then three women.
Tall women who walked with that same easy swagger Javre had. That swagger that said they ruled the ground they walked on. All three wore swords. All three wore sneers. All three, Shev didn’t doubt, were Templars of the Golden Order, come for Javre in the name of the High Priestess of Thond.
The first had dark hair coiled into a long braid bound with golden wire, and old eyes in a young face. The second had a great burn mark across her cheek and through her scalp, one ear missing. The third had short red hair and eyes slyly narrowed as she looked Shev up and down. ‘You’re very … wet,’ she said.
Shev swallowed. ‘It’s the North. Everything’s a bit damp.’
‘Bloody North.’
The scarred one spat. ‘No horses to be had anywhere.’
‘Not for love nor money,’ sang the red-haired one, ‘and believe me, I’ve tried both.’
‘Probably the war,’ said the dark-haired one.
‘It’s the North. There’s always a war.’
Whirrun gave a heavy sigh as he clambered from behind the rock, fastening his belt. ‘’Tis a humbling indictment of our way of life, but one I find I can’t deny.’ And he hefted the Father of Swords over his shoulder and came to stand beside Shev.
‘You aren’t nearly as funny as you think you are,’ said the scarred one.
‘Few of us indeed,’ said Shev, ‘are as funny as we think we are.’
Javre stepped out from behind the rock, and the three women all shifted nervously at the sight of her. Sneers became frowns. Hands crept towards weapons. Shev could feel the violence coming, sure as the grass grows, and she clung tight to that entirely inadequate knife of hers. All the fights she got into, she really should learn to use a sword. Or maybe a spear. She might look taller with a spear. But then you’ve got to carry the bastard around. Something with a chain, maybe, that coiled up small?
‘Javre,’ said the one with the braid.
‘Yes.’ Javre gave the women that fighter’s glance of hers. That careless glance that seemed to say she had taken all their measure in a moment and was not impressed by it.
‘You’re here, then.’
‘Where else would I be but where I am?’
The dark-haired woman raised her sharp chin. ‘Why don’t you introduce everyone?’
‘It feels like a lot of effort, when you will be gone so soon.’
‘Indulge me.’
Javre sighed. ‘This is Golyin, Fourth of the Fifteen. Once a good friend to me.’
‘Still a good friend, I like to think.’
Shev snorted. ‘Would a good friend chase another clear across the Circle of the World?’ Under her breath, she added, ‘Not to mention her good friend’s partner.’
Golyin’s eyes shifted to Shev’s, and there was a sadness in them. ‘If a good friend had sworn to. In the quiet times, perhaps, she would cry that the world was this way, and wring her hands, and ask the Goddess for guidance, but …’ She gave a heavy sigh. ‘She would do it. You must have known we would catch you eventually, Javre.’
Sharp Ends: Stories from the World of The First Law Page 11