“Well that’s real sweet for you,” said Craw, “except insofar as actually getting this thing.”
“As far as getting the thing goes,” mused Wonderful, splashes of light and shadow swimming across her bony face as she looked up into the branches, “the lack of detail presents serious difficulties. All manner of things in a village that size. Which one, though? Which thing, is the question.” Seemed she was in a thoughtful mood. “One might say the voice, and the paint, and the aura of fear are, in the present case… self-defeating.”
“Oh no,” said Craw. “Self-defeating would be if she was the one who’d end up way out past the Crinna with her throat cut, on account of some blurry details on the minor point of the actual job we’re bloody here to do.” And he gave Raubin a hard glare as he strode out of the trees and into the clearing.
Scorry was sitting sharpening his knives, eight blades neatly laid out on the patchy grass in front of his crossed legs, from a little pricker no longer’n Craw’s thumb to a hefty carver just this side of a short-sword. The ninth he had in his hands, whetstone working at steel, squick, scrick, marking the rhythm to his soft, high singing. He had a wonder of a singing voice, did Scorry Tiptoe. No doubt he would’ve been a bard in a happier age, but there was a steadier living in sneaking up and knifing folk these days. A sad fact, Craw reckoned, but those were the times.
Brack-i-Dayn was sat beside Scorry, lips curled back, nibbling at a stripped rabbit bone like a sheep nibbling at grass. A huge, very dangerous sheep. The little thing looked like a toothpick in his great tattooed blue lump of a fist. Jolly Yon frowned down at him as if he was a great heap of shit, which Brack might’ve been upset by, if it hadn’t been Yon’s confirmed habit to look at everything and everyone that way. He properly looked like the least jolly man in all the North at that moment. It was how he’d come by the name, after all.
Whirrun of Bligh was kneeling on his own on the other side of the clearing, in front of his great long sword, leaned up against a tree for the purpose. He had his hands clasped in front of his chin, hood drawn down over his head and with just the sharp end of his nose showing. Praying, by the look of him. Craw had always been a bit worried by men who prayed to gods, let alone swords. But those were the times, he guessed. In bloody days, swords were worth more than gods. They certainly had ’em outnumbered. Besides, Whirrun was a valley man, from way out north and west, across the mountains near the White Sea, where it snowed in summer and no one with the slightest sense would ever choose to live. Who knew how he thought?
“Told you it was a real piss-stain of a village, didn’t I?” Never was in the midst of stringing his bow. He had that grin he tended to have, like he’d made a joke on everyone else and no one but him had got it. Craw would’ve liked to know what it was, he could’ve done with a laugh. The joke was on all of ’em, far as he could see.
“Reckon you had the right of it,” said Wonderful as she strutted past into the clearing. “Piss. Stain.”
“Well, we didn’t come to settle down,” said Craw, “we came to get a thing.”
Jolly Yon achieved what many might’ve thought impossible by frowning deeper, black eyes grim as graves, dragging his thick fingers through his thick tangle of a beard. “What sort of a thing, exactly?”
Craw gave Raubin another look. “You want to dig that one over?” The fixer only spread his hands, helpless. “I hear we’ll know it when we see it.”
“Know it when we see it? What kind of a—”
“Tell it to the trees, Yon, the task is the task.”
“And we’re here now, aren’t we?” said Raubin.
Craw sucked his teeth at him. “Brilliant fucking observation. Like all the best ones, it’s true whenever you say it. Yes, we’re here.”
“We’re here,” sang Brack-i-Dayn in his up-and-down Hillman accent, sucking the last shred o’ grease from his bone and flicking it into the bushes. “East of the Crinna where the moon don’t shine, a hundred miles from a clean place to shit, and with wild, crazy bastards dancing all around think it’s a good idea to put bones through their own faces.” Which was a little rich, considering he was so covered in tattoos he was more blue than white. There’s no style of contempt like the stuff one kind of savage has for another, Craw guessed.
“Can’t deny they’ve got some funny ideas east of the Crinna.” Raubin shrugged. “But here’s where the thing is, and here’s where we are, so why don’t we just get the fucking thing and go back fucking home?”
“Why don’t you get the fucking thing, Raubin?” growled Jolly Yon.
“’Cause it’s my fucking job to fucking tell you to get the fucking thing is why, Yon fucking Cumber.”
There was a long, ugly pause. Uglier than the child of a man and a sheep, as the hillmen have it. Then Yon talked in his quiet voice, the one that still gave Craw prickles up his arms, even after all these years. “I hope I’m wrong. By the dead, I hope I’m wrong. But I’m getting this feeling…” He shifted forward, and it was awfully clear all of a sudden just how many axes he was carrying, “like I’m being disrespected.”
“No, no, not at all, I didn’t mean—”
“Respect, Raubin. That shit costs nothing, but it can spare a man from trying to hold his brains in all the way back home. Am I clear enough?”
“Course you are, Yon, course you are. I’m over the line. I’m all over it on both sides of it, and I’m sorry. Didn’t mean no disrespect. Lot o’ pressure, is all. Lot o’ pressure for everyone. It’s my neck on the block just like yours. Not down there, maybe, but back home, you can be sure o’ that, if she don’t get her way…” Raubin shuddered again, worse’n ever.
“A touch of respect don’t seem too much to ask—”
“All right, all right.” Craw waved the pair of ’em down. “We’re all sinking on the same leaky bloody skiff, there’s no help arguing about it. We need every man to a bucket, and every woman too.”
“I’m always helpful,” said Wonderful, all innocence.
“If only.” Craw squatted, pulling out a blade and starting to scratch a map of the village in the dirt. The way Three trees used to do a long, low, time ago. “We might not know exactly what this thing is, but we know where it is, at least.”
Knife scraped through earth, the others all gathering round, kneeling, sitting, squatting, looking on. “A big hall, in the middle, with uprights on it carved like foxes. They look more like dragons to me, but, you know, that’s another story. There’s a fence round the outside, two gates, north and south. Houses and huts all about here. Looked like a pig pen there. That’s a forge, maybe.”
“How many do we reckon might be down there?” asked Yon.
Wonderful rubbed at the scar on her scalp, face twisted as she looked up towards the pale sky. “Could be fifty, sixty fighting men? A few elders, few dozen women and children too. Some o’ those might hold a blade.”
“Women fighting.” Never grinned. “A disgrace, is that.”
Wonderful bared her teeth back at him. “Get those bitches to the cook fire, eh?”
“Oh, the cook fire . . .” Brack stared up into the cloudy sky like it was packed with happy memories.
“Sixty warriors? And we’re but seven—plus the baggage.” Jolly Yon curled his tongue and blew spit over Raubin’s boots in a neat arc. “Shit on that. We need more men.”
“Wouldn’t be enough food then.” Brack-i-Dayn laid a sad hand on his belly. “There’s hardly enough as it—”
Craw cut him off. “Maybe we should stick to plans using the number we’ve got, eh? Plain as plain, sixty’s way too many to fight fair.” Not that anyone had joined his crew for a fair fight, of course. “We need to draw some off.”
Never winced. “Any point asking why you’re looking at me?”
“Because ugly men hate nothing worse than handsome men, pretty boy.”
“It’s a fact I can’t deny,” sighed Never, flicking his long hair back. “I’m cursed with a fine face.”
“Your cu
rse my blessing.” Craw jabbed at the north end of his dirt-plan, where a wooden bridge crossed a stream. “You’ll take your unmatched beauty in towards the bridge. They’ll have guards posted, no doubt. Mount a diversion.”
“Shoot one of ’em, you mean?”
“Shoot near ’em, maybe. Let’s not kill anyone we don’t have to, eh? They might be nice enough folks under different circumstances.”
Never sent up a dubious eyebrow. “You reckon?”
Craw didn’t, particularly, but he’d no desire to weigh his conscience down any further. It didn’t float too well as it was. “Just lead ’em a little dance, that’s all.”
Wonderful clapped a hand to her chest. “I’m so sorry I’ll miss it. No one dances prettier than our Never when the music gets going.”
Never grinned at her. “Don’t worry, sweetness, I’ll dance for you later.”
“Promises, promises.”
“Yes, yes.” Craw shut the pair of ’em up with another wave. “You can make us all laugh when this fool job’s done with, if we’re still breathing.”
“Maybe we’ll make you laugh too, eh Whirrun?”
The valley man sat cross-legged, sword across his knees, and shrugged. “Maybe.”
“We’re a tight little group, us lot, we like things friendly.”
Whirrun’s eyes slid across to Jolly Yon’s black frown, and back. “I see that.”
“We’re like brothers,” said Brack, grinning all over his tattooed face. “We share the risks, we share the food, we share the rewards, and from time to time we even share a laugh.”
“Never got on too well with my brothers,” said Whirrun.
Wonderful snorted. “Well aren’t you blessed, boy? You’ve been given a second chance at a loving family. You last long enough, you’ll learn how it works.”
The shadow of Whirrun’s hood crept up and down his face as he slowly nodded. “Every day should be a new lesson.”
“Good advice,” said Craw. “Ears open, then, one and all. Once Never’s drawn a few off, we creep in at the south gate.” And he put a cross in the dirt to show where it was. “Two groups, one each side o’the main hall there, where the thing is. Where the thing’s meant to be, leastways. Me, Yon, and Whirrun on the left.” Yon spat again, Whirrun gave the slightest nod. “Wonderful, take Brack and Scorry down the right.”
“Right y’are, chief,” said Wonderful.
“Right for us,” sang Brack.
“So, so, so,” said Scorry, which Craw took for a yes.
He stabbed at each of ’em with one chewed-to-bugger fingernail. “And all on your best behavior, you hear? Quiet as a spring breeze. No tripping over the pots this time, eh, Brack?”
“I’ll mind my boots, chief.”
“Good enough.”
“We got a backup plan,” asked Wonderful, “in case the impossible happens and things don’t work out quite according to the scheme?”
“The usual. Grab the thing if we can, then run like fuck. You,” and Craw gave Raubin a look.
His eyes went wide as two cook pots. “What, me?”
“Stay here and mind the gear.” Raubin gave a long sigh of relief, and Craw felt his lip curl. He didn’t blame the man for being a hell of a coward, most men are. Craw was one himself. But he blamed him for letting it show. “Don’t get too comfortable, though, eh? If the rest of us come to grief these Fox fuckers’ll track you down before our blood’s dry and more’n likely cut your fruits off.” Raubin’s sigh rattled to a quick stop.
“Cut your head off,” whispered Never, eyes all scary-wide.
“Pull your guts out and cook ’em,” growled Jolly Yon.
“Skin your face off and wear it as a mask,” rumbled Brack.
“Use your cock for a spoon,” said Wonderful. They all thought about that for a moment.
“Right, then,” said Craw. “Nice and careful, and let’s get in that hall without no one noticing and get us that thing. Above all…”And he swept the lot of ’em with his sternest look, a half circle of dirt-smeared, scar-pocked, bright-eyed, beard-fuzzed faces. His crew. His family. “Nobody die, eh? Weapons.”
Quick sharp, and with no grumbling now the work was at their feet, Craw’s crew got ready for action, each one smooth and practiced with their gear as a weaver with his loom, weapons neat as their clothes were ragged, bright and clean as their faces were dirty. Belts, straps, and bootlaces hissed tight, metal scraped, rattled and rang, and all the while Scorry’s song floated out soft and high.
Craw’s hands moved by themselves through the old routines, mind wandering back across the years to other times he’d done it, other places, other faces around him, a lot of ’em gone back to the mud long ago. A few he’d buried with his own hands. He hoped none of these folk died today, and became nothing but dirt and worn-out memories. He checked his shield, grip bound in leather all tight and sturdy, straps firm. He checked his knife, his backup knife, and his backup backup knife, all tight in their sheaths. You can never have too many knives, someone once told him, and it was solid advice, provided you were careful how you stowed ’em and didn’t fall over and get your own blade in your fruits.
Everyone had their work to be about. Except Whirrun. He just bowed his head as he lifted his sword gently from the tree-trunk, holding it under the crosspiece by its stained leather scabbard, sheathed blade longer’n one of his own long legs. Then he pushed his hood back, scrubbed one hand through his flattened hair and stood watching the others, head on one side.
“That the only blade you carry?” asked Craw as he stowed his own sword at his hip, hoping to draw the tall man in, start to build some trust with him. Tight crew like this was, a bit of trust might save your life. Might save everyone’s.
Whirrun’s eyes swiveled to him. “This is the Father of Swords, and men have a hundred names for it. Dawn Razor. Grave-Maker. Blood Harvest. Highest and Lowest. Scac-ang-Gaioc in the valley tongue which means the Splitting of the World, the battle that was fought at the start of time and will be fought again at its end.” For a moment he had Craw wondering if he’d list the whole bloody hundred but thankfully he stopped there, frowning at the hilt, wound with dull gray wire. “This is my reward and my punishment both. This is the only blade I need.”
“Bit long for eating with, no?” asked Wonderful, strutting up from the other side.
Whirrun bared his teeth at her. “That’s what these are for.”
“Don’t you ever sharpen it?” asked Craw.
“It sharpens me.”
“Right. Right y’are.” Just the style of nonsense Craw would’ve expected from Cracknut Leef or some other rune-tosser. He hoped Whirrun was as good with that great big blade as he was supposed to be, ’cause it seemed he brought nothing to the table as a conversationalist.
“Besides, to sharpen it you’d have to draw it,” said Wonderful, winking at Craw with the eye Whirrun couldn’t see.
“True.” Whirrun’s eyes slid up to her face. “And once the Father of Swords is drawn, it cannot be sheathed without—”
“Being blooded?” she finished for him. Didn’t take skill with the runes to see that coming, Whirrun must’ve said the same words a dozen times since they left Carleon. Enough for everyone to get somewhat tired of it.
“Blooded,” echoed Whirrun, voice full of portent.
Wonderful gave Craw a look. “You ever think, Whirrun of Bligh, you might take yourself a touch too serious?”
He tipped his head back and stared up into the sky. “I’ll laugh when I hear something funny.”
Craw felt Yon’s hand on his shoulder. “A word, chief?”
“Course,” with a grin that took some effort.
He guided Craw away from the others a few steps, and spoke soft. The same words he always did before a fight. “If I die down there…”
“No one’s dying today,” snapped Craw, the same words he always used in reply.
“So you said last time, ’fore we buried Jutlan.” That drove Craw’s mood anoth
er rung down the ladder into the bog. “No one’s fault, we do a dangerous style o’ work, and all know it. Chances are good I’ll live through, but all I’m saying is, if I don’t—”
“I’ll stop by your children, and take ’em your share, and tell them what you were.”
“That’s right. And?”
“And I won’t dress it up any.”
“Right, then.” Jolly Yon didn’t smile, of course. Craw had known him years, and hadn’t seen him smile more’n a dozen times, and even then when it was least expected. But he nodded, satisfied. “Right. No man I’d rather give the task to.”
Craw nodded back. “Good. Great.” No task he wanted less. As Yon walked off he muttered to himself. “Always the fool jobs…”
It went pretty much just like Craw planned. He wouldn’t have called it the first time ever, but it was a pleasant surprise, that was sure. The six of them lay still and silent on the rise, followed the little movements of leaf and branch that marked Never creeping towards that crap-arse of a village. It looked no better the closer you got to it. Things rarely did, in Craw’s experience. He chewed at his nails some more, saw Never kneel in the bushes across the stream from the north gate, nocking an arrow and drawing the string. It was hard to tell from this range, but it looked like he still had that knowing little grin even now.
He loosed his shaft and Craw thought it clicked into one of the logs that made the fence. Faint shouting drifted on the wind. A couple of arrows wobbled back the other way, vanished into the trees as Never turned and scuttled off, lost in the brush. Craw heard some kind of a drum beating, more shouting, then men started to hurry out across that bridge, weapons of rough iron clutched in their hands, some still pulling their furs or boots on. Perhaps three dozen, all told. A neat piece of work. Provided Never got away, of course.
Yon shook his head as he watched a good chunk of the Fox Clan shambling over their bridge and into the trees. “Amazing, ain’t it? I never quite get used to just how fucking stupid people are.”
“Always a mistake to overestimate the bastards,” whispered Craw. “Good thing we’re the cleverest crew in the Circle of the World, eh? So could we have no fuckups, today, if you please?”
The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year, Volume 5 Page 15