The Heroes

by Abercrombie, Joe

  Calder took a long breath. How could this unreasoning thug be his father’s son? And his father’s heir, besides? ‘There’ll be a time to fight, but for now we need to tread carefully. We’re short on allies, Scale. I spoke to Reachey, and he won’t move against me but he won’t move for.’

  ‘Creeping bloody coward!’ Scale raised his fist to punch the tree again and Calder pushed it gently down with one finger.

  ‘Just worried for his daughter.’ And he wasn’t the only one. ‘Then there’s Ironhead and Golden, neither too well disposed to us. If it weren’t for their feud with each other I daresay they’d have been begging Dow for the chance to kill me.’

  Scale frowned. ‘You think Dow was behind it?’

  ‘How could he not be?’ Calder had to squeeze down his frustration and his voice with it. He’d forgotten how much talking to his brother could be like talking to a tree stump. ‘And anyway, Reachey had it from Dow’s own mouth that he wants me dead.’

  Scale shook his head, worried. ‘I hadn’t heard that.’

  ‘He’s not likely to tell you, is he?’

  ‘But he had you hostage.’ Scale’s brow was wrinkled with the effort of thinking it out. ‘Why let you come back?’

  ‘Because he’s hoping I’ll start plotting, and then he’ll be able to bring it all out and hang me nice and fair.’

  ‘Don’t plot, then, you should be right enough with everyone.’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot.’ A couple of Carls looked up from their water cups, and he pushed his voice back down. Scale could afford to lose his temper, Calder couldn’t. ‘We need to protect ourselves. We have enemies everywhere.’

  ‘True, and there’s one you haven’t talked about at all. Most dangerous of the lot, far as I can tell.’ Calder froze for a moment, wondering who he might have left out of his calculations. ‘The fucking Union!’ Scale pointed through the trees towards the south with one thick finger. ‘Kroy, and the Dogman, and their forty thousand soldiers! The ones we’ve been fighting a war against! I’ve been, anyway.’

  ‘That’s Black Dow’s war, not mine.’

  Scale slowly shook his head. ‘Did you ever think it might be the easier, cheaper, safer path just to do what you’re told?’

  ‘Thought about it, decided against. What we need—’

  ‘Listen to me.’ Scale came close, looking him right in the eye. ‘There’s a battle coming, and we have to fight. Do you understand? This is the North. We have to fight.’

  ‘Scale—’

  ‘You’re the clever one. Far cleverer than me, everyone knows it. The dead know I know it.’ He leaned closer still. ‘But the men won’t follow cleverness. Not without strength. You have to earn their respect.’

  ‘Huh.’ Calder glanced around at the hard eyes in the trees. ‘Can’t I just borrow it from you?’

  ‘One day I might not be here, and you’ll need some respect of your own. You don’t have to wade in blood. You just have to share the hardships and share the danger.’

  Calder gave a watery smile. ‘It’s the danger that scares me.’ He wasn’t over keen on the hardships either, if the truth be known.

  ‘Fear is good.’ Easy for him to say whose skull was so thick fear couldn’t get in. ‘Our father was scared every day of his life. Kept him sharp.’ Scale took Calder’s shoulder in a grip that wasn’t to be resisted and turned him to face south. Between the trunks of the trees at the edge of the woods he could see a long expanse of fields, gold, and green, and fallow brown. The western spur of the Heroes loomed up on the left, Skarling’s finger sticking from the top, the grey streak of a road through the crops at its foot. ‘That track leads to the Old Bridge. Dow wants us to take it.’

  ‘Wants you to take it.’

  ‘Us. It’s barely defended. Do you have a shield?’

  ‘No.’ Nor the slightest wish to go where he might need one.

  ‘Pale-as-Snow, lend me your shield there.’

  The waxy-faced old warrior handed it over to Calder. Painted white, appropriately enough. It had been a long time since he’d handled one, battered about a courtyard at sword practice, and he’d forgotten how much the damn things weighed. The feel of it on his arm brought back ugly memories of old humiliations, most of them at his brother’s hands. But they’d probably be eclipsed by new ones before the day was out. If he lived through it.

  Scale patted Calder on his sore cheek again. Unpleasantly firm, again. ‘Stay close to me and keep your shield up, you’ll get through all right.’ He jerked his head towards the men scattered in the trees. ‘And they’ll think more of you just for seeing you up front.’

  ‘Right.’ Calder hefted the shield with scant enthusiasm.

  ‘Who knows?’ His brother slapped him on the back and nearly knocked him over. ‘Maybe you will too.’

  Ours Not to Reason Why

  ‘You just love that bloody horse, don’t you, Tunny?’

  ‘She makes better conversation than you, Forest, that’s for sure, and she’s a damn sight better than walking. Aren’t you, my darling?’ He nuzzled at her long face and fed her an extra handful of grain. ‘My favourite animal in the whole bloody army.’

  He felt a tap on his arm. ‘Corporal?’ It was Yolk, looking off towards the hill.

  ‘No, Yolk, I’m afraid to say you’re nowhere near. In fact you need to work hard at not being my least favourite animal—’

  ‘No, Corporal. Ain’t that that Gurts?’

  Tunny frowned. ‘Gorst.’ The neckless swordsman was riding across the river from the direction of the orchards on the far bank, horse’s hooves dashing up spray, armour glinting dully in what had turned out to be bright sunlight. He spurred up the bank and into the midst of the regiment’s officers, almost knocking one young lieutenant down. Tunny might have been amused, except there was something about Gorst that drained all the laughs from the world. He swung from the saddle, nimbly for all his bulk, lumbered straight up to Colonel Vallimir and gave a stiff salute.

  Tunny tossed his brush down and took a few steps towards them, watching closely. Long years in the military had given him a razor-keen sense of when he was about to get fucked, and he was having a painful premonition right now. Gorst spoke for a few moments, face a blank slab. Vallimir shook an arm at the hill, then off to the west. Gorst spoke again. Tunny edged closer, trying to catch the details. Vallimir flung up his hands in frustration, then stalked over, shouting.

  ‘First Sergeant Forest!

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Apparently there’s a path through those bogs to our west.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘General Jalenhorm wants us to send the First Battalion through it. Make sure the Northmen can’t use it against us.’

  ‘The bog beyond the Old Bridge?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We won’t be able to get horses through that—’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘We only just got them back, sir.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘But … what will we do with them in the meantime?’

  ‘You’ll just have to bloody well leave them here!’ snapped Vallimir. ‘Do you think I like sending half my regiment across a bloody bog without their horses? Do you?’

  Forest worked his jaw, scar down his cheek shifting. ‘No, sir.’

  Vallimir strode away, beckoning over some of the officers. Forest stood a moment, rubbing fiercely at the back of his head.

  ‘Corporal?’ whispered Yolk, in a small voice.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is this another example of everyone shitting on the head of the man below?’

  ‘Very good, Yolk. We may make a soldier of you yet.’

  Forest stopped in front of them, hands on hips, frowning off upriver. ‘Seems the First Battalion have a mission.’

  ‘Marvellous,’ said Tunny.

  ‘We’ll be leaving our horses here and heading west to cross that bog.’ A chorus of groans greeted him. ‘You think I like it? Get packed and get moving!’ And Forest stomped off to
break the happy news elsewhere.

  ‘How many men in the battalion?’ muttered Lederlingen.

  Tunny took a long breath. ‘About five hundred when we left Adua. Currently four hundred, give or take a recruit or two.’

  ‘Four hundred men?’ said Klige. ‘Across a bog?’

  ‘What sort of a bog is it?’ muttered Worth.

  ‘A bog!’ Yolk squealed, like a tiny, angry dog yapping at a bigger one. ‘A bloody bog! A massive load of mud! What other sort of bog would it be?’

  ‘But …’ Lederlingen stared after Forest, and then at his horse, onto which he’d just loaded most of his gear and some of Tunny’s. ‘This is stupid.’

  Tunny rubbed at his tired eyes with finger and thumb. How often had he had to explain this to a set of recruits? ‘Look. You think how stupid people are most of the time. Old men drunk. Women at a village fair. Boys throwing stones at birds. Life. The foolishness and the vanity, the selfishness and the waste. The pettiness, the silliness. You think in a war it must be different. Must be better. With death around the corner, men united against hardship, the cunning of the enemy, people must think harder, faster, be … better. Be heroic.’

  He started to heave his packages down from his horse’s saddle. ‘Only it’s just the same. In fact, do you know, because of all that pressure, and worry, and fear, it’s worse. There aren’t many men who think clearest when the stakes are highest. So people are even stupider in a war than the rest of the time. Thinking about how they’ll dodge the blame, or grab the glory, or save their skins, rather than about what will actually work. There’s no job that forgives stupidity more than soldiering. No job that encourages it more.’

  He looked at his recruits and found they were all staring back, horrified. Except for an oblivious Yolk, straining on tiptoe to get his spear down from his horse, perhaps the largest in the regiment. ‘Never mind,’ he snapped. ‘This bog won’t cross itself.’ He turned his back on them, patted his horse gently on the neck and sighed. ‘Oh well, old girl. Guess you’ll have to manage a little longer without me.’

  Cry Havoc and …

  Scorry was cutting hair when Craw got back to his dozen, or the seven who were left, leastways. Eight including him. He wondered if there’d ever been a dozen that actually had the full twelve. Sure as hell his never had. Agrick sat on a fallen tree trunk all coated with ivy, frowning into nowhere as the shears snip-snipped around his face.

  Whirrun was leaning against a tree, the Father of Swords stood up on its point and the hilt cradled in his folded arms. He’d stripped his shirt off for some reason and stood there in a leather vest, a big grey stain of old sweat down the front and his long, sinewy arms sticking out. Seemed as if the more dangerous things got the more clothes he liked to lose. Probably have his arse out by the time they were finished with this valley.

  ‘Craw!’ he shouted, lifting his sword and shaking it around.

  ‘Hey, Chief.’ Drofd sitting on a branch above with back against trunk. Whittling a stick for an arrow shaft, shavings fluttering down.

  ‘Black Dow didn’t kill you, then?’ asked Wonderful.

  ‘Not right on the spot, anyway.’

  ‘Did he tell you what’s to do?’ Yon nodded towards the men crowding the woods all around. He had a lot less hair than when Craw left and it made him look older somehow, creases around his eyes and grey in his brows Craw never noticed before. ‘I get the feeling Dow’s planning to go.’

  ‘That he is.’ Craw winced as he squatted down in the brush, peering south. Seemed a different world out there beyond the treeline. All dark and comforting under the leaves. Quiet, like being sunk in cool water. All bathed in harsh sunlight outside. Yellow-brown barley under the blue sky, the Heroes bulging up vivid green from the valley, the old stones on top, still standing their pointless watch.

  Craw pointed over to their left, towards Osrung, the town no more’n a hint of a high fence and a couple of grey towers over the crops. ‘Reachey’s going to move first, make a charge on Osrung.’ He found he was whispering, even though the Union were a good few hundred strides away on top of a hill and could hardly have heard him if he screamed. ‘He’ll be carrying all the standards, make it look like that’s the big push. Hope to draw some men down off the Heroes.’

  ‘Reckon they’ll fall for that?’ asked Yon. ‘Pretty thin, ain’t it?’

  Craw shrugged. ‘Any trick looks thin to them who know it’s coming.’

  ‘Don’t make too much difference whether they go or not, though.’ Whirrun was stretching now, hanging from a tree branch, sword slung over his back. ‘We still got the same hill to climb.’

  ‘Might help if there’s half as many Union at the top when we get there,’ Drofd tossed down from his own perch.

  ‘Let’s hope they fall for it then, eh?’ Craw moved his hand to the right, towards the field and pasture between Osrung and the Heroes. ‘If they do send men down from the hill, that’s when Golden’s going with his horse. Catch those boys trousers down in the open and spill ’em all the way back to the river.’

  ‘Drown those fuckers,’ grunted Agrick, with rare bloodthirstiness.

  ‘Meantime Dow’s going to make the main effort. Straight at the Heroes, Ironhead and Tenways alongside with all their lads.’

  ‘How’s he going to work it?’ asked Wonderful, rubbing at her new scar.

  Craw gave her a look. ‘Black Dow, ain’t it? He’s going to run up there head on and make mud of everything ain’t mud already.’

  ‘And us?’

  Craw swallowed. ‘Aye. We’ll be along.’

  ‘Front and centre, eh?’

  ‘Up that bloody hill again?’ growled Yon.

  ‘Almost makes you wish we’d fought the Union for it last time,’ said Whirrun, swinging from one branch to another.

  Craw pointed to their right. ‘Scale’s over there in the woods under Salt Fell. Once Dow’s made his move, he’s going to charge his horsemen down the Ustred Road and snatch the Old Bridge. Him and Calder.’

  Amazing how much Yon could disapprove with just a shake of his head. ‘Your old mate Calder, eh?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Craw looked straight at him. ‘My old mate Calder.’

  ‘Then this lovely valley and all its nothing much shall be ours!’ sang Whirrun. ‘Again.’

  ‘Dow’s, at any rate,’ said Wonderful.

  Drofd was counting the names off on his fingers. ‘Reachey, Golden, Ironhead, Tenways, Scale and Dow himself … that’s a lot o’ men.’

  Craw nodded. ‘Might be the most ever fought for the North in one spot.’

  ‘There’s going to be quite a battle here,’ said Yon. ‘Quite the hell of a battle.’

  ‘One for the songs!’ Whirrun had hooked his legs over the branch and was hanging upside down now, for some reason best known to his self.

  ‘We’re going to make a right mess o’ those Southerners.’ Drofd didn’t sound entirely convinced, though.

  ‘By the dead, I hope so,’ mouthed Craw.

  Yon edged forwards. ‘Did you get our gild, Chief?’

  Craw winced. ‘Dow weren’t in the mood to bring it up.’ There was a round of groans at that, just like he’d known there would be. ‘I’ll get it later, don’t worry. It’s owed and you’ll get it. I’ll talk to Splitfoot.’

  Wonderful sucked her teeth. ‘You’d be better trying to get sense from Whirrun than coin out o’ Splitfoot.’

  ‘I heard that!’ called Whirrun.

  ‘Think on this,’ said Craw, slapping Yon’s chest with the back of his hand. ‘You get up that hill you’ll be owed another gild. Two at once. Ain’t going to be time to spend it now anyway, is there? We got a battle to fight.’

  That much no one could argue with. Men were moving through the woods now, all geared-up and ready. Rustling and rattling, whispering and clattering, forming a kneeling line stretching off both ways between the tree trunks. Sunlight came ragged through the branches, patching on frowning faces, glinting on helmet and drawn sw
ord.

  ‘When were we last in a proper battle, anyway?’ muttered Wonderful.

  ‘There was that skirmish down near Ollensand,’ said Craw.

  Yon spat. ‘Don’t hardly call that proper.’

  ‘Up in the High Places,’ said Scorry, finishing the cutting and brushing the hair from Agrick’s shoulders. ‘Trying to prise Ninefingers out of that bloody crack of a valley.’

  ‘Seven years ago, was it? Eight?’ Craw shuddered at the memory of that nightmare, scores of fighters crowded into a gap in the rock so tight no one could hardly breathe, so tight no one could swing, just prick at each other, knee at each other, bite at each other. Never thought he’d come through that little slice of horror alive. Why the hell would a man choose to risk it again?

  He looked at that shallow bowl of crop-filled country between the woods and the Heroes. Looked a bloody long way for an old man with more’n one dodgy leg to run. Glorious charges came up a lot in the songs, but there was one advantage to the defensive no one could deny – the enemy come to you. He shifted from one leg to the other, trying to find the best spot for his knee, and his ankle, and his hip, but a variety of agony was the best he could manage. He snorted to himself. True of life in general, that was.

  He looked around to check his dozen were all ready. Got quite the shock to see Black Dow himself down on one knee in the ferns not ten strides distant, axe in one hand, sword in the other, Splitfoot and Shivers and his closest Carls at his back. He’d put aside his furs and finery and looked about like any other man in the line. Except for his fierce grin, like he was looking forward to this as much as Craw was wondering if there was a way free of it.

  ‘Nobody get killed, aye?’ He looked around ’em all as he pressed Scorry’s hand. They all shook their heads, gave frowns or nervous grins, said ‘no’, or ‘aye’, or ‘not me’. All except Brack, sat staring out towards the trees like he was on his own, sweat beading his big, pale face.

  ‘Don’t get killed, eh, Brack?’