A Little Hatred

by Joe Abercrombie

  Calder’s lip curled with contempt. “You haven’t fought a man in twenty years! You only want to watch him fight so you can relive your lost glories. You’re fat as a—”

  “Yes, I’m fat as a hog and twenty years past my best and I daresay quite the figure of fun for most. But there is one thing you’re forgetting, brother.” Scale hooked his thumb under his golden chain and lifted it so the great diamond dangled, sparkling with the flames in the firepit. “I am our father’s eldest son. I wear his chain. I am king!” He let the chain fall, and slapped his good hand down on Stour’s shoulder. “I name Stour Nightfall not only as my heir but as my champion. He’ll stand for me in the Circle, and fight for Uffrith and all the land between the Cusk and the Whiteflow. That’s the end of it.”

  Stour broke out that wet-eyed grin of his. “Perhaps you should leave the warriors to their talk, Father. We’ve the choice of weapons to discuss.”

  Calder stood quiet a moment longer, face a rigid mask. “Warriors,” he hissed, like it was the worst insult he could think of, then turned on his heel and stalked from the room.

  Stour lifted his ale cup. “By the dead, when the mood’s on him, he can bleat like a fucking sheep—”

  There was a sharp crack as Scale slapped him, knocking the cup from his hand and sending it spinning across the floor. “You’d be wise to treat your father with respect, boy!” snarled the king, his great finger shoved in Stour’s shocked and pinking face. “Everything you have you owe to him!” There was a long silence, then Scale gave the golden pommel of the heavy sword he wore a fond pat. “Call me old-fashioned, but I still favour a sword. What do you say, Clover?”

  “I say a sword’s a fool’s weapon.”

  Stour was rubbing his face with his fingertips, looking at his uncle through narrowed eyes. Now he turned them on Clover. “You carry one.”

  “I do.” Clover picked at his own battered pommel with a fingernail. “But I try never to draw it.”

  Scale threw up his hands, the iron and the flesh. “You make your living teaching other folk to use one!”

  “They pay me to learn. But I always start by telling ’em never to fight with one. Come at a man with a sword, he’ll see you coming, and if a man you mean to kill sees you coming then you’re going about it all wrong.”

  “There’s no hiding in the Circle.” Stour turned away from Clover in disgust. “In the Circle, the other man’s always ready.”

  “That’s why I’d stay even further from the Circle than I would from the sword,” said Clover. “Money, land, fame, friends, even your name—lose them but keep your life, with time and hard labour you can always win ’em back.” He’d lost his name, hadn’t he? And won a new? He could still smell the sweet clover in his nose as he lay there in the Circle, waiting for the end. “But there’s no beating the Great Leveller. No man comes back from the mud.”

  Stour gave a hiss of disgust. “Fucking coward’s words.”

  “A live coward can find his courage another day. A dead hero…” Clover liked to talk, but sometimes silence says more. He let it stretch a moment longer, then smiled. “Still. I daresay you’ll have it your way, Great Wolf.”

  And he followed Black Calder out of the hall.

  Hopes and Hatreds

  “They packed him in a box,” said Jurand, staring sadly into the fire.

  “Who?” asked Glaward.

  “Barniva. To be sent back to his family.”

  Whitewater winced, prodding at a big bruise he’d picked up in the battle. “I guess that’s what they do. With dead men.”

  “They packed him with salt, but I daresay he’ll be ripe by the time he gets there—”

  “Are you auditioning for his part as the war-weary one?” snapped Leo, not enjoying this conversation at all. Not wanting to think about Barniva’s death. Not wanting to think about what part he might’ve had in it. “I’ve got a bloody duel to win. They might be packing me in a box this time tomorrow!”

  “But they won’t need to send you anywhere,” said Whitewater, brow crinkling with puzzlement. “Your mother’s in the camp.”

  Leo gritted his teeth. “My point is, I need to focus. It’s a shame about Barniva. He was a brave man. A good friend. Always there when you needed him.” He felt his voice quavering a little. “If he hadn’t put his shield across me…” Perhaps he’d still be alive. All his tedious warnings about the horrors of war seemed wise words now. Leo never thought he might have missed them. “It’s a damn shame about Barniva, but we’ll have to mourn him later. Right now, we need to make his sacrifice worthwhile. Him, and Ritter, and all the others…” His voice was quavering again, damn it. He felt a surge of anger. “I need you all to bloody focus. I have to pick a weapon to take to the Circle. My life might hang on the choice.”

  Jurand straightened up. “I’m sorry. It’s just…” And he sagged back down. “In a box.”

  “Spear,” said Antaup. “It has the reach, the speed, the finesse—”

  “Finesse.” Whitewater chuckled. “The Circle’s no place for finesse.”

  Glaward rolled his eyes like he never heard such folly. “And once Stour Nightfall slips around your pig-sticker, what then?”

  “Your counterproposal?” asked Antaup with an urbane arched eyebrow. “A monstrous battleaxe, I daresay, heavier than he is, that he can swing twice before he’s blown?”

  Glaward looked slightly affronted. “They make small axes, too.”

  “Spear’s too cumbersome for single combat in a small space.” Jin grimaced as he rubbed at his bruised cheek again. “Axe is simple, sturdy, good close up.”

  “If you want close up, a sword’s more versatile.” Antaup mimed the actions. “Thrust, slash, lunge, pommel strike.”

  Glaward rolled his eyes. “Always with the bloody pommel strike. Sword is obvious.”

  “Sword is classic.”

  “You’re all missing the point,” snapped Leo. “You take a weapon, but you never know if you’ll fight with it, or hand it to your opponent and fight with whatever he brings. What you need is something you can use but the other bastard can’t.”

  Glaward frowned. “Such as…”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you!”

  “Maybe you should ask someone clever.” Jin was wobbling a tooth now, just behind the bruise, checking if it was loose. “Like your mother.”

  “We’re not on the best of terms right now,” said Leo, grumpily. “She’s not too keen on the whole duel idea.”

  There was a brief silence. Antaup and Glaward exchanged a meaningful glance. Then Jurand sat forward, all open and earnest, flames reflected in the corners of his eyes. Leo couldn’t deny it had an effect on him, when he did that. “Do you think… maybe… you should listen to her?”

  “Really? Now?”

  “Well, she’s about the best tactician I know—”

  “So you don’t think I can do it?”

  “No one believes in you more than me!” Jurand cleared his throat, glanced at the others, sat back a little. “More than us. But single combat… it’s a gamble. Anything could happen. I don’t…we don’t want you to get… hurt.” His voice failed him on the last word and became a croak. As if he couldn’t quite bring himself to say “killed.” They all knew it could only be victory or the Great Leveller.

  “You any good with a whip?” asked Antaup.

  Leo stared at him. “Seriously?”

  “I once saw this Gurkish woman whip swords out of men’s hands. At a show. They came up from the audience, and, well, it was quite something. She whipped a girl’s dress half-off without cutting her, too.” And he grinned at the memory.

  “So I should whip Stour Nightfall’s clothes off?” asked Leo.

  “No, but, you know, I was thinking of something he couldn’t use, and—”

  “I should whip the bloody lot of you.” Rikke walked up, pushing chagga around her bottom lip with her tongue, as usual, and slowly shaking her shaggy head. Leo was glad to see her. Very
glad. She always made him feel good. Long Eye or not, she always saw past the nonsense, somehow, and right to the heart of things. She helped him see to the heart of things. The dead knew, he needed some clarity then.

  “We’re talking of weapons, woman,” grumbled Glaward.

  “I heard, man,” said Rikke, “and you’re talking with your arses. What you take into the Circle in your hands matters far less than what you take in your head.” And she tapped at the side of her skull. “Doubt you lot are much help with the former and you’re a bloody hindrance with the latter.”

  “And how many duels have you fought?” complained Jin.

  “As many as all you lot put together,” she answered smartly. “Now lose yourselves, I need to talk to my champion.”

  Maybe they were used to being ordered around by Leo’s mother, and Rikke seemed to have borrowed her air of command. Sheepishly, they stood, gathered their things.

  “Don’t go far!” she called after them. “He’ll need you to hold the shields!”

  “What’s got into you?” asked Leo.

  Rikke gave a haughty sniff and made the ring through her nose twitch. “Isern said I should be taking the reins.”

  “I’m a horse now?”

  “Aye, and you need the spur.”

  “My mother usually gives me that.” Leo felt a twinge of nerves, realising afresh he’d soon be fighting to the death. “When I need her most, she’s bloody abandoned me.”

  “Makes for a sad story, but I daresay she’d see it differently. She’s used to taking charge, Leo, now she’s helpless. She’s scared, I reckon.”

  “She’s scared? I’m the one has to fight the Great Wolf! She should be here!”

  “You’ve spent weeks moaning that she’s always at your shoulder. Now you’ve stepped from her shadow you miss her? By the dead, the Young Lion shouldn’t need his mother.”

  Leo took a long breath and blew it out. “You’re right. All my life, I wanted to fight in the Circle.” He clutched at his head. “Bloody hell, Rikke, why did I ever want to fight in the Circle?”

  She caught him by the wrists, pulled them down. “No one remembers how the fight was won, only who won it. Fight hard.”

  “I will.”

  “Fight dirty.”

  “I will.”

  “The lion beat the wolf.”

  “I know.”

  “No. You don’t.” She took his face now, with both hands. “The lion beat the wolf. I’ve seen it.” Her big, pale eyes were full of certainty, and he took heart from that. Started to feel braver. To feel himself again. The Young Lion! She was just what he needed then. A spring of belief in a desert of doubt. It’s like they say, every good man needs a good woman beside him. Or under him, anyway.

  “I bloody love you,” he said. Her brows shot up. Almost as high as his. Why had he said that? Swept off by whatever emotion blew his way, like his mother always said he was. “I mean… I don’t mean love love,” he stammered. What the hell did he mean? What did you call it, when a woman was your lover and your friend? It had never happened to him before. “Or… maybe I do mean that—”

  “Then promise me one thing.” She put her hand around the back of his head and dragged him close, so their noses were almost touching. “Promise me you’ll kill the bastard.”

  He bared his teeth. “I promise. Killing the bastard is the whole point. For you. For your father. For Ritter. For Barniva…” He smiled. “Barniva’s sword. That’s what I’ll take.”

  “Good choice, I reckon.”

  He felt another wave of sadness as he glanced down to the bridge, followed quickly by a shiver of nerves. “I just hope it brings me more luck than it did him.”

  “You don’t need luck.” Rikke twisted his face back towards her and kissed him, gentle and serious, and full of belief. “I’ve seen it.”

  Folk were already gathering at the appointed place. Seemed the rivers of blood spilled yesterday had only sharpened the thirst for more. Losing a duel himself had much diminished Clover’s taste for the business, but he’d been asked to hold a shield for the heir to the North and that was reckoned quite the honour. Felt prudent to at least arrive in good time.

  A patch of grass had been shaved to the roots not far from the bridge where the fighting had been hottest, the Circle marked out with pegs and rope, six good strides across. Carpenters had knocked up some seating on platforms so the big folk would get a good view of everyone’s futures being settled. So Black Calder and Scale Ironhand, and the Dogman and Lady Brock wouldn’t miss a drop of blood spilled. Be a shame for it to hit the dirt unnoticed, after all.

  Good weather for it. Blue washing out to pale on the horizon as the sun sank wearily towards the hills. A great arrow of geese was honking off southwards, high up, not caring much for the doings of men. Not caring much who won or lost, who lived or died. Good to know the geese’d still be flapping regardless, though it would likely be scant comfort to whichever hero got a sword up his arse.

  The men who held the shields around the Circle, making sure no one left till the business was settled, were meant to be the fiercest warriors either side could find and, to be fair, the younger ones were shooting some warlike glares across the shortened grass. The older ones had seen it all before, though, and saved their snarls for when they mattered. For all they stood on different sides, some of Scale’s and the Dogman’s Named Men were chatting like old friends. Clover knew most o’ the names. Red Hat and Oxel, Flatstone and Brodd Silent, Lemun the Chalk from up near Yaws and Gregun Hollowhead from the West Valleys. The Nail, too, pale hair stuck up like thistle-fluff, bound all over with bloody bandages from yesterday’s fighting.

  Strange, in a way, for men who’d been fixed on killing each other a few hours before to be happily mingling, stamping and blowing and polishing their shield-rims, mulling over fights long past, the fight just done and the fight to come. But then warriors on different sides always had more in common with each other than with anyone else.

  “Loneliest o’ professions,” murmured Clover to himself. Shepherds might not make many friends, but they weren’t often called upon to kill the ones they had made, either.

  “Jonas Steepfield.” Clover jerked around at the whispering voice, the sound of that name frightening and oddly exciting both at once. A big man stood beside him with a battered shield on his arm, grey hair stirring in the wind about a grey stubbled face with a scar that put Clover’s to shame. And in the midst of that scar, a bright ball of dead metal where an eye should’ve been.

  “If it ain’t Caul Shivers. I don’t go by Steepfield any more. I learned a big hard name makes men want to take a blade to you just so they can cut off a piece of it.”

  Shivers gave the kind of weary nod that’s born of hard experience. “The world’s full of eager fools, all right.”

  “No call for me to be swelling their number. It’s just Clover now.”

  “There was clover in that Circle, eh? Where you fought.”

  “There was. Whenever I smell it, I remember how being beaten feels.”

  Shivers gave that weary nod again, looking off towards the hills. “We should talk, sometime. One scarred old warhorse to another.”

  “You’re the warhorse, Shivers. I’m more a crow, picking at the leftovers.”

  “Not that I don’t like the act, it’s a good one.” Shivers glanced over towards Greenway, prancing around like he was the one about to face the Young Lion and was sure of winning, too. “Don’t doubt you’ve got a lot of eager fools taking you for quite the figure of fun.” He leaned close to whisper. Or maybe to whisper even more throatily. “But we both know what y’are.”

  Clover had heard it said Caul Shivers could see your thoughts with that metal eye. Horseshit, of course. But he’d seen plenty with the other. Few men more. Might be the hardest name in the North still casting a shadow. He didn’t need a magic eye to make some sharp guesses.

  Clover took a breath. “Aye, well, we all play the cards we’re dealt.”


  “Some of us do. Some of us kill men with better cards and play theirs instead. What’s this Stour Nightfall like as a fighter?”

  “I wouldn’t want to fight him.”

  “A sensible man does his best to avoid any fight.”

  “Any fair one.”

  A pause, and they watched the folk crowd in, from the Union side and the North. Warriors, servants, women, more and more of them until there was a gabbling crowd in every direction.

  “What’s he like as a man?” asked Shivers.

  “About what you’d expect from someone they call the Great Wolf. Certainly no better. What about Brock?”

  Shivers shrugged. “About what you’d expect from someone they call the Young Lion. Certainly no worse.”

  “Huh. Since we’ve got all the answers, I sometimes wonder why we follow these bastards.”

  The noise swelled up, cheers on one side and grumbles on the other, and Bethod’s sons came through the press, as ill-matched a pair of brothers as ever there were. Scale Ironhand, huge and fleshy and flashing with gold, all smiles. Black Calder, lean as a spear and frowning like thunder.

  “I hear a lot of talk about loyalty,” said Shivers as the men who’d ruled the North for the best part of twenty years took their high seats above the Circle.

  Clover snorted. “Since we’ve a dozen dead masters between us, and both had a hand in more’n one of the downfalls, I feel no shame in saying that loyalty is overrated.”

  “Helps to have someone worth being loyal to.” The cheers and grumbles were reversed as a lean old man with long hair and a pointed face clambered stiffly onto the seats opposite.

  “The Dogman?” He looked grey. Grey-clothed, grey-haired, grey-faced, like the life had leaked out of him to leave a wispy husk a sudden gust might whisk away. “The man looks a touch past his best.”

  Shivers cast a lazy eye towards Scale, and back. He had a way of saying a lot with a few words. “Least he had one.”

  “Aye.” Clover gave a weary sigh. “Got a lot o’ respect for the Dogman, as it goes. Only man won any kind of power in the North in my lifetime and stayed halfway decent. The rest—Bethod, the Bloody-Nine, Black Dow, Black Calder, well… between you and me…” Clover scratched gently at his scar and dropped his voice very low. “It’s been quite the who’s-the-biggest-cunt contest, wouldn’t you say?”