Shivers slowly nodded. “A real arsehole’s parade.”
“But then the arseholes tend to win, don’t they? Maybe I’m weak, but I’d rather be on the winning side, even if the losers smell sweeter.”
“You should meet his daughter.”
“Who, the Dogman’s?”
“Aye. Rikke. I’ll make no promises for her odour but she’s worth talking to.” He nodded towards the platform, where a girl was clambering over the back, all knees and elbows, to wedge herself between the Dogman and a pale, hard Union woman Clover reckoned to be the one-time Lady Governor of Angland.
She pushed her tangle of red-brown hair out of her face to show those big grey eyes and he’d no doubt it was her. The one who’d come tumbling down the hill and fallen at his feet. The one he’d let scamper off into the woods.
“We met in passing. Struck me as two-thirds o’ nothing.”
“Then you misjudged her.”
No doubt she was fine-looking, but more than a bit mad-looking, too, wild and twitchy with a cross painted over one eye, a fat gold ring through her nose and a mass of rattling chains around her neck like she was learning to be some hillwoman sorceress but hadn’t actually got to the spells yet.
“You sure?” he asked.
“Do I look like a man prone to fancy?”
Clover gave Shivers a quick glance up and down. “About as little as any living. And I was long ago cured of the misapprehension that I’m right on every score.”
“The wiser a man is, the more he stands ready to be educated.” There was a little curl at the corner of Shivers’ mouth as he watched Rikke flapping her hands around. A hint of pride, maybe. The most feeling he’d let show the whole time they’d talked. Anyone who could coax some warmth from that face-shaped block of rock was someone worth watching, Clover reckoned.
Around the edge of the Circle, the shield-carriers were starting to form up, folk pressing in behind them, eager for the best view of the murder. “Let me know when you want that chat, then, Shivers, you old bastard.” Clover hefted his shield and stepped away to find his own place. “My ears are always open to a better way of doing things.”
Rikke had been hoping the hate would melt when she finally saw Stour Nightfall’s face, because her hate for him was getting to feel like quite the weight to carry. She’d look in his eyes and see he wasn’t the monster who’d whined his hopes for her horrible murder, who’d burned her father’s garden and killed good folk she knew, but just a man with loves and fears like any other, and her hate would melt.
As so often with hopes, and hatreds, it didn’t quite turn out that way.
The king-in-waiting strutted preening into the Circle to wild cheers from his side, lauded and clapped and slapped on the back, and stood there with a damp-eyed smirk like a wedding guest who’d pricked the bride the night before.
“That’s Nightfall?” murmured Finree dan Brock, sitting pale and stiff beside Rikke and quite clearly trying to put a brave face over her misery.
“That’s him.” Rikke narrowed her eyes, wishing she could see through him. See some clue to what he’d do. See some weakness Leo could use. See his death coming.
But the Long Eye cannot be forced open, and all she saw was that infuriating bloody smirk, like he was the one who could see the future and for him it held nothing but victories. He glanced her way, and that wolf grin grew a tooth wider each side, and he sauntered over to her half of the Circle.
“You’re Rikke, then?” he called out, giving her a slow look up and down with those wet eyes, his mouth open and his tongue showing. “You’re prettier’n I thought you’d be.”
She gave him the same sort of look, but with her mouth scorn-twisted. “You’re about as ugly as I was expecting.”
“I hear you can see what’s coming. Did you see yourself sucking my cock yet?”
Jeering laughter at that, and Rikke clenched her fists. “Just you losing in the Circle.”
He only grinned the wider. “I know you’re lying about that one. Might be you’re lying about the other.” And he gave her a sly wink as he turned away. Winked at her, the bastard, and she felt the hate boil up hotter than ever.
“Don’t worry about it!” she screamed, jumping to her feet and jabbing away with one clawing finger. “Once Leo’s broke you in half, you can suck your own!”
Got some laughs at least from the folk on her side, and some ugly stares from Stour’s shield-carriers. She recognised the Nail in their midst, staring right at her with his pale brows thoughtfully wrinkled, and she curled her tongue into a tube and blew spit at him, and he grinned, and gave a little bow.
“Easy,” muttered her father, pulling her back down by the elbow. “Hard words are for fools and cowards. Stour might be both, but you’re neither.”
“Winking wanker,” she growled. “I’ll see him fucked by a pig, the bastard. I’ll see him strung up with brambles and the bloody cross cut in him. I’ll send his guts to his daddy in a box. With herbs. So they won’t smell ’em till they open it.”
She saw her father staring at her, and looking quite worried, too.
“What?” she grumbled, hunching her shoulders. “Didn’t think I had it in me to hate a man?”
“Be careful, is all I’m saying. Hate a man that much, you give him power over you.”
“Maybe. But it goes back to the mud with him.” Her voice sounded hard in her own ear. “The Great Leveller cancels all debts.”
The whoops and taunts from their side of the Circle became cheers as Leo pushed through the crowd, his friends at his back.
Her father leaned close. “Have it in you to love a man, too?” She looked at him, caught by surprise. “I’m old, Rikke, not blind.”
Leo flinched as the wall of shields clattered shut behind him, like a prisoner might at the turning of the jailer’s key. He’d said he loved her. Wasn’t that she thought he was lying. Just that she doubted he’d ever love anyone more than himself.
“There are things I love about him.” Best stomach she’d ever seen, for instance. “There are things I don’t.” Biggest head she’d ever known, for instance.
“You can hate things about a person and still love ’em. Ain’t easy, watching someone you love walk into the Circle.”
Rikke bunched her fists until the nails bit at her palms. “Helps if you hate the other bastard more.”
The noise started to fade as Isern-i-Phail stepped out onto the short-shaved grass, chewing slowly with her tall spear in her hand. When all that remained was a nervy silence, she wedged her chagga down behind her lip with her tongue.
“I’m Isern-i-Phail! My da, Crummock-i-Phail, judged the fight between Fenris the Feared and the Bloody-Nine. He was a well-known bastard.” Some laughter and hoots of agreement. “But he was well known! And being a hillman, the closest thing to a neutral party anyone could find. I am as well known as he.” And she lifted her chin and gestured at herself. “But for my piercing wits and haunting beauty.” More laughter. “Seems it’s fallen to me as a hillwoman to judge this bout.” She grinned over at Stour. “Though I should declare up front that I hate this cunt over here, and might yet be prevailed upon to kill him myself.”
The laughter only made Rikke more nervous.
“Have to admire your honesty,” said Stour.
“I couldn’t give a moth’s cock what you admire, but the judging of a duel is a sacred trust and so on and bloody so on, and you can trust me to judge this one fairly, I’m sure.”
“Wouldn’t worry,” said Stour. “Me standing over his corpse won’t need much judging. You say start. I’ll handle the rest.”
“Whoa there, boy!” shouted Isern. “The moon loves a proper order to things, and there’s the introductions, stakes and choice o’ weapons to see to. Don’t worry, I’ll waste no time inflating your bloated names any more than I have to. Over here on my…” She thought for a moment, frowned at Leo, frowned at her hands, frowned at the sky, then snapped her fingers. “Left! On my left, we’ve
got Leo dan Brock, son of Finree dan Brock, newly minted Lord Governor of Angland, who men call the Young Lion on account of his youth and heroic opinion of himself. If he’s as skilful as he’s pretty, we’ll have quite the fight.” She pointed her spear at Stour. “Which means this article must be on my right and it’s Stour Nightfall, d’you see, son of Black Calder and heir to the chain of Bethod, that men call the Great Wolf ’cause of, who can say, the hairiest arse in the North, for all I know. He beat Stranger-Come-Knocking in the Circle but we’re all aware the man was way past his best. Good enough?”
Leo said nothing, eyes fixed on Stour like they were alone in the Circle.
Stour shrugged, still smiling. “Good enough.”
“Bastard, bastard, fucking bastard,” Rikke hissed through tight lips. She was biting on her chagga pellet so hard, her whole face was aching, willing her guts to turn sickly, and her eye to turn hot, and some ghost of the future to show itself. But nothing came.
“Your next question!” called Isern. “What are these two fools going to kill each other over? Mostly a matter of manly pride, as is proper in a duel, but there’s also the rich, dark earth o’ the North. The winner takes the patch of it men call the Protectorate, which stretches from the Whiteflow to the Cusk and includes the city of Uffrith. Stour Nightfall wins, it belongs to King Scale. Leo dan Brock wins, it stays with the Dogman in the loving embrace o’ the Union. All happy with the terms?”
A quiet then. No one on Rikke’s side looked too happy about anything.
“Dogman, Chieftain of Uffrith?” called Isern.
“Aye,” said Rikke’s father, wearily.
“Brock, Lord Governor of Angland?”
“Aye,” snapped Leo.
“Scale Ironhand, King of the Northmen?”
“Aye,” rumbled Scale, jowls quivering as he smothered a burp, like this was the third duel he’d watched that day. “Get to it, woman.”
“Then I will, you hill of lard.” Isern thrust her spear into the ground with a thud and snapped her fingers at Shivers. “Lend me your shield, handsome.” He glanced over his shoulder like he thought she might be talking to someone else, then tossed it to her. She snatched it from the air, set it down on its rim. “Straps or paint, Brock?” Though Shivers’ shield was so battered, only a few stubborn flakes of paint still clung to it.
“Paint,” said Leo. Isern set the shield spinning, and men started shouting and whooping and calling, and beside her, Rikke felt Lady Finree give a kind of gasp, and she covered her eyes with her hands.
“He’ll win,” said Rikke.
“How can you know?”
Rikke took her cold, limp hand and squeezed it. “He’ll win,” she said, making it sound like a sure fact, for all her head was splitting with doubts.
Maybe she could’ve talked him out of it. But it was too late now.
There was a rattle as the shield fell.
“Straps down,” said Isern. “Your pick, Great Wolf.”
Stour caught Rikke’s eye and shrugged, more careless than ever, like the notion of losing had never even occurred. “He can pick.”
“Your pick, Young Lion.”
Leo shook his head. “He can pick.”
“Men!” And Isern rolled her eyes. “They never can commit. You’ll fight with what you brought, then.” She tossed the shield back to Shivers, plucked her spear from the ground and pointed it at the men about the Circle, shields all facing inwards now, rims grating as they locked them together into a wall. “You lot, keep these two in here till it’s settled. And no more interfering than is seemly.” She spat chagga juice, wiped her chin and nodded, like it was all set up to her satisfaction. “Let’s get to it.”
Where Names Are Made
Leo once heard someone say attack is the best defence. Couldn’t remember who, but it struck him as a bold philosophy. Words to live by. So his plan was to be the whirlwind. Give Stour no breath, no space, no chance to think. Leo would overwhelm that smirking bastard, put him in the mud and look forward to feasts in his honour and songs of his prowess.
But plans often crumble when swords are swung at them, and Leo’s lasted no longer than it took Isern-i-Phail to screech, “Fight!”
Stour came at him so shockingly fast, Leo had to twist his opening thrust into a clumsy parry, forced onto the back foot by a raking cut that jarred Barniva’s sword in his hand.
A flash of Stour’s grin and a flicker of bright steel and Leo stumbled back again, parrying, dodging, parrying, the quick scrape and clatter of their blades almost lost in the bloodthirsty roar of the crowd. He only just ducked a wicked cut that could’ve taken his head right off, but Stour gave him no clumsy backswing to work with, stepped scornfully away from Leo’s counter and pressed in again.
Seemed Stour had heard that thing about attack and defence, too. But he was better at it.
“Kill him!” screeched Antaup.
“Come on!” shouted Jurand.
“Leo!” roared Glaward, shaking his shield. But Stour was already on him again, three cuts so quick, Leo only dodged the first two by the barest instinct. He reeled away from the third, fishing with his sword in a weak effort to keep his opponent back. Stour was the whirlwind. Leo was the leaf blown around the Circle.
The speed of him. He used a heavy Northman’s sword—broad blade, solid crosspiece, weighty golden pommel—but he handled it nimbly as a Styrian rapier. Almost no backswing. Almost no recovery. Intentions masterfully disguised.
Apart from Bremer dan Gorst, who’d a fair claim to being the greatest swordsman of the age, Leo never saw a blade handled with such savage skill. He felt the doubt creeping cold up his spine. He was used to being swaddled in a blanket of self-confidence, and the chill as it was stripped away was all the worse for being unfamiliar.
But Leo once heard someone say there are many ways to crack an egg. Hadn’t been entirely sure of the meaning, but it struck him as a workmanlike philosophy. Words to live by. Stour might have the speed, but Leo had the strength. He had to watch for his opening, pin the slippery bastard down and crush him like a walnut on an anvil.
Stour’s next thrust came deadly fast, but Leo was ready. He twisted, forced it away, pressed forward instead of falling back, caught a satisfying glimpse of surprise on Stour’s face. He cut and cut again, blows heavy with his fear and frustration, jarring the sword in Nightfall’s hand.
Steel scraped as Stour caught Leo’s blade on his, held it up short, the edge almost brushing the pointed tip of his nose. They snarled in each other’s faces, straining for the upper hand, crosspieces grinding, knuckles almost rubbing together, shifting their stances in a bid to gain some hair of an advantage, locked together in a furious, frozen struggle while the crowd made a mindless thunder in which encouragement could hardly be told from insults.
The brief flicker of triumph went out as, ever so slowly, Leo felt himself losing the contest. He bared his teeth, growled, spat, but Stour forced him back, and back, until finally Leo was pushed off balance and had to stumble away, their swords ringing apart. He gasped as Stour’s blade came hissing at him, dodged desperately, slipped and nearly fell, reeled back into a little space, breathing hard.
The crowd on the Northern side bellowed their approval. The crowd on the Union’s murmured their disappointment. The Great Wolf gave a showy flourish of his sword and grinned. It was plain they were all coming to the same conclusion.
Stour was the better swordsman.
Still, Leo once heard someone say there’s always a way. He’d had his doubts at the time, but now it struck him as a hopeful philosophy. Words to live by? If he couldn’t beat the Great Wolf with speed or strength, he’d have to outlast him. Tire him with a dogged defence, a sullen determination, a stubborn endurance. He’d be the deep-rooted tree the hurricane can’t shift. He had to wear the bastard down.
Stour thrust, but off-centre. It was easy for Leo to step around it, finally sensing an opening. But just as he pounced, Stour dipped his shoulder, whipped his sword a
cross in a flicking cut. Leo gasped as he felt the wind of the blade across his face. He slashed back but the Great Wolf was already dancing away, grinning, always grinning.
The crowd roared. For a moment, Leo thought it was for him. Then he felt something tickling his cheek. Stour’s point had scratched his face, so quick and so sharp he’d hardly felt it. It was blood the crowd were cheering for. His blood.
As Leo backed off, the cut began to tingle, then to throb. He wondered how bad a scar it would leave. Wondered if it was a Naming Wound. But as that cold doubt crept all the way up to his throat, he realised you had to live through the duel for that. The dead get no names.
Stour’s grin grew a tooth wider. A tooth crueller.
“I’m going to bleed you, boy,” he said.
Clover jerked away as the point of Brock’s sword flashed past on the backswing not a hand’s width from his nose. Stour darted in, all snarl and fury, thrust, thrust again. Brock gasped as he jumped back, knocking Stour’s sword wide so it gouged into the shield just next to Clover’s.
By the dead, the noise. The grind of steel, the growls of the fighters, the monstrous fury of the crowd.
By the dead, the crush. Shield-carriers straining, rims scraping against his as they shifted, shoulders squeezing against his as they shoved, the ring of shields twisting as the fighters danced close, boots mashing the dirt as men pushed back against the watchers behind, shoving ever inwards at the sight of blood.
Clover told himself he hated this fight between fools, watched by fools. A brutal waste of at least one life that appealed to all that was worst in men. But in some deep-hidden part of him, he loved it, too. Thrilled to the sharp metal swung and the hot blood spilled. A little piece of Jonas Steepfield, stuck in him like a splinter he could never quite dig out.
A Little Hatred Page 40