Abercrombie, Joe - The Heroes Страница 20

‘Excellent! Send to Colonel Vallimir and ask him to take that battalion through the bogs.’

A couple of officers grumbled their approval. Others glanced somewhat nervously at each other. ‘A whole battalion?’ one muttered. ‘Is this path suitable for—’

Jalenhorm swatted them away. ‘Colonel Gorst! Would you ride back across the river and convey my wishes to Colonel Vallimir, make sure the enemy can’t give us an unpleasant surprise.’

Gorst paused for a moment. ‘General, I would prefer to remain where I can—’

‘I understand entirely. You wish to be close to the action. But the king asked specifically in his last letter that I do everything possible to keep you out of danger. Don’t worry, the front line will hold perfectly well without you. We friends of the king must stick together, mustn’t we?’

All the king’s fools, capering along in military motley to the same mad bugle music! Make the one with the silly voice turn another cartwheel, my sides are splitting! ‘Of course, sir.’ And Gorst trudged back towards his horse.

Scale

Calder nudged his horse down a path so vague he wasn’t even sure it was one, smirk clamped tight to his face. If Deep and Shallow were keeping an eye on him – and since he was their best source of money it was a certainty – he couldn’t tell. Admittedly, there wasn’t much point to men like Deep and Shallow if a man like Calder could tell where they were, but by the dead he would’ve liked some company. Like a starving man tossed a crust, seeing Curnden Craw had only whetted Calder’s appetite for friendly faces.

He’d ridden through Ironhead’s men, soaking up their scorn, and Tenways’, soaking up their hostility, and now he was getting into the woods at the west end of the valley, where Scale’s men were gathered. His brother’s men. His men, he supposed, though they didn’t feel much like his. Tough-looking bastards, ragged from hard marching, bandaged from hard fighting. Worn down from being far from Black Dow’s favour where they did the toughest jobs for the leanest rewards. They didn’t look in a mood to celebrate anything, and for damn sure not the arrival of their Chief’s coward brother.

It didn’t help that he’d struggled into his chain mail shirt, hoping to at least look like a warrior prince for the occasion. It had been a gift from his father, years ago, made from Styrian steel, lighter than most Northern mixtures but still heavy as an anvil and hot as a sheepskin. Calder had no notion how men could wear these damn things for days at a time. Run in them. Sleep in them. Fight in them. Mad business, fighting in this. Mad business, fighting. He’d never understood what men saw in it.

And few men saw more in it than his own brother, Scale.

He was squatting in a clearing with a map spread out in front of him. Pale-as-Snow was at his left elbow and White-Eye Hansul at his right, old comrades of Calder’s father from the time when he ruled the best part of the North. Men who’d fallen a long way when the Bloody-Nine threw Calder’s father from his battlements. Almost as far as Calder had fallen himself.

Him and Scale were born to different mothers, and the joke always was that Scale’s must’ve been a bull. He looked like a bull, and a particularly mean and muscular one at that. He was Calder’s opposite in almost every way – blond where Calder was dark, blunt-featured where Calder was sharp, quick to anger and slow to think. Nothing like their father. Calder was the one who’d taken after Bethod, and everyone knew it. One reason why they hated him. That and he’d spent so much of his life acting like a prick.

Scale looked up when he heard the hooves of Calder’s horse, gave a great smile as he strode over, still carrying that trace of a limp the Bloody-Nine had given him. He wore his chain mail lightly as a maiden wears a shift even so, a heavy black-forged double coat of it, plates of black steel strapped on top, all scratched and dented. ‘Always be armed,’ their father had told them, and Scale had taken it literally. He was criss-crossed with belting and bristling with weapons, two swords and a great mace at his belt, three knives in plain sight and probably others out of it. He had a bandage around his head stained brown on one side, and a new nick through his eyebrow to add to a rapidly growing collection of scars. It looked as if Calder’s frequent attempts to persuade Scale to stay out of battle had been as wasted as Scale’s frequent attempts to persuade Calder to charge into it.

Calder swung from his saddle, finding it a straining effort in his mail and trying to make it look like he was only stiff from a hard ride. ‘Scale, you thick bastard, how’ve you—’

Scale caught him in a crushing hug, lifted his feet clear of the ground and gave him a slobbery kiss on the forehead. Calder hugged him back the best he could with all the breath squeezed out of his body and a sword hilt poking him in the gut, so suddenly, pathetically happy to have someone on his side he wanted to cry.

‘Get off!’ he wheezed, hammering at Scale’s back with the heel of his hand like a wrestler submitting. ‘Off!’

‘Just good to see you back!’ And Scale spun him helplessly around like a husband with his new bride, gave him a fleeting view of Pale-as-Snow and White-Eye Hansul. Neither of them looked like hugging Calder any time soon. The eyes on him from the Named Men scattered about the clearing were no more enthusiastic. Men he recognised from way back, kneeling to his father or sitting at the long table or cheering victory in the good old days. No doubt they were wondering whether they’d have to take Calder’s orders now, and not much caring for the idea. Why would they? Scale was all those things warriors admire – loyal, strong and brave beyond the point of stupidity. Calder was none of them, and everyone knew it.

‘What happened to your head?’ he asked, once Scale had let his feet touch earth again.

‘This? Bah. Nothing.’ Scale tore the bandage off and tossed it away. It didn’t look like nothing, his yellow hair matted brown with dry blood on one side. ‘Seems you’ve a wound of your own though.’ Patting Calder’s bruised lip none too gently. ‘Some woman bite you?’

‘If only. Brodd Tenways tried to have me killed.’

‘What?’

‘Really. He sent three men after me to Caul Reachey’s camp. Luckily Deep and Shallow were looking out and … you know …’

Scale was moving fast from bafflement to fury, his two favourite emotions and never much of a gap between the two, little eyes opening wider and wider until the whites showed all the way around. ‘I’ll kill the rotten old bastard!’ He started to draw a sword, as if he was going to charge off through the woods to the ruin where Black Dow had their father’s chair and slaughter Brodd Tenways on the spot.

‘No, no, no!’ Calder grabbed his wrist with both hands, managed to stop him getting his sword from the sheath and was nearly dragged off his feet doing it.

‘Fuck him!’ Scale shrugged Calder off, punched the nearest tree trunk with one gauntleted fist and tore a chunk of bark off it. ‘Fuck the shit out of him! Let’s kill him! Let’s just kill him!’ He punched it again and brought a shower of seeds fluttering down. White-Eye Hansul looked on warily, Pale-as-Snow looked on wearily, both giving the strong impression this wasn’t the first rage they’d had to deal with.

‘We can’t run around killing important people,’ coaxed Calder, palms up.

‘He tried to kill you, didn’t he?’

‘I’m a special case. Half the North wants me dead.’ That was a lie, it was closer to three-quarters. ‘And we’ve no proof.’ Calder put his hand on Scale’s shoulder and spoke softly, the way their father used to. ‘It’s politics, brother. Remember? It’s a delicate balance.’

‘Fuck politics and shit on the balance!’ But the rage had flickered down now. Far enough that there was no danger of Scale’s eyes popping out of his head. He rammed his sword back, hilt snapping against the scabbard. ‘Can’t we just fight?’

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.’