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Give and Take
‘Up you get, old man.’
Craw was half in a dream still. At home, wherever that was. A young man, or retired. Was it Colwen smiling at him from the corner? Turning wood on the lathe, curled shavings scattering, crunching under his feet. He grunted, rolled over, pain flaring up his side, stinging him with panic. He tried to rip back his blanket.
‘What’s the—’
‘It’s all right.’ Wonderful had a hand on his shoulder. ‘Thought I’d let you sleep in.’ She had a long scab down the other side of her head now, stubble hair clumped with dried blood. ‘Thought you could use it.’
‘I could use a few hours yet.’ Craw gritted his teeth against ten different aches as he tried to sit up, first fast then very, very slow. ‘Bloody hell, but war’s a young man’s business.’
‘What’s to do?’
‘Not much.’ She handed him a flask and he sluiced water around his foul mouth and spat. ‘No sign of Hardbread. We buried Athroc.’ He paused, flask half way to his mouth, slowly let it drop. There was a heap of fresh dirt at the foot of one of the stones on the far side of the Heroes. Brack and Scorry stood in front of it, shovels in their hands. Agrick was between the two, looking down.
‘You say the words yet?’ asked Craw, knowing they wouldn’t have but still hoping.
‘Waiting for you.’
‘Good,’ he lied, and clambered up, gripping to her forearm. It was a grey morning with a nip in the wind, low clouds pawing at the craggy summits of the fells, mist still clinging to the creases in their sides, shrouding the bogs down in the valley’s bottom.
Craw limped to the grave, shifting his hips, trying to wriggle away from the pain in his joints. He’d rather have gone anywhere else, but there are some things you can’t wriggle away from. They were all drifting over there, gathering in a half-circle. All sad and quiet. Drofd trying to cram down a whole crust of bread at once, wiping his hands on his shirt. Whirrun with hood drawn up, cuddling the Father of Swords like a man might cuddle his sick child. Yon with a face even grimmer’n usual, which took some doing. Craw found his place at the foot of the grave, between Agrick and Brack. The hillman’s face had lost its usual ruddy glow, the bandage on his leg showing a big fresh stain.
‘That leg all right?’ he asked.
‘Scratch,’ said Brack.
‘Bleeding a lot for a scratch, ain’t it?’
Brack smiled at him, tattoos on his face shifting. ‘Call that a lot?’
‘Guess not.’ Not compared to Hardbread’s nephew when Whirrun cut him in half, anyway. Craw glanced over his shoulder, towards where they’d piled the corpses in the lee of the crumbling wall. Out of sight, maybe, but not forgotten. The dead. Always the dead. Craw looked at the black earth, wondering what to say. Looked at the black earth like it had answers in it. But there’s nothing in the earth but darkness.
‘Strange thing.’ His voice came out a croak, he had to cough to clear it. ‘The other day Drofd was asking me whether they call these stones the Heroes ’cause there are Heroes buried here. I said not. But maybe there’s one buried here now.’ Craw winced saying it, not out of sadness but ’cause he knew he was talking shit. Stupid shit wouldn’t have fooled a child. But the dozen all nodded, Agrick with a tear-track down his cheek.
‘Aye,’ said Yon.
You can say things at a grave would get you laughed out of a tavern, and be treated like you’re brimming over with wisdom. Craw felt every word was a knife he had to stick in himself, but there was no stopping.
‘Hadn’t been with us long, Athroc, but he made his mark. Won’t be forgot.’ Craw thought on all the other lads he’d buried, faces and names worn away by the years, and couldn’t even guess the number of ’em. ‘He stood with his crew. Fought well.’ Died badly, hacked with an axe, on ground that meant nothing. ‘Did the right thing. All you can ask of a man, I reckon. If there’s any—’
‘Craw!’ Shivers was standing maybe thirty strides away on the south side of the circle.
‘Not now!’ he hissed back.
‘Aye,’ said Shivers. ‘Now.’
Craw hurried over, the grey valley opening up between two of the stones. ‘What am I looking— Uh.’ Beyond the river, at the foot of Black Fell, there were horsemen on the brown strip of the Uffrith Road. Riding fast towards Osrung, smudges of dust rising behind. Could’ve been forty. Could’ve been more.
‘And there.’
‘Shit.’ Another couple of score coming the other way, towards the Old Bridge. Taking the crossings. Getting around both sides of the Heroes. The surge of worry was almost a pain in Craw’s chest. ‘Where’s Scorry at?’ Staring about like he’d put something down and couldn’t remember where. Scorry was right behind him, holding up one finger. Craw breathed out slow, patting him on the shoulder. ‘There you are. There you are.’
‘Chief,’ muttered Drofd.
Craw followed his pointing finger. The road south from Adwein, sloping down into the valley from the fold between two fells, was busy with movement. He snapped his eyeglass open and peered towards it. ‘It’s the Union.’
‘How many, d’you reckon?’
The wind swept some mist away and, for just a moment, Craw could see the column stretching back between the hills, men and metal, spears prickling and flags waving above. Stretching back far as he could see.
‘Looks like all of ’em,’ breathed Wonderful.
Brack leaned over. ‘Tell me we ain’t fighting this time.’
Craw lowered his eyeglass. ‘Sometimes the right thing to do is run like fuck. Pack up!’ he bellowed. ‘Right now! We’re moving out!’
His crew always kept most of their gear stowed and they were busy packing the rest quick sharp, Scorry with a jaunty marching tune on the go. Jolly Yon was stomping the little fire out with one boot while Whirrun watched, already packed since all he owned was the Father of Swords and he had it in one hand.
‘Why put it out?’ asked Whirrun.
‘I ain’t leaving those bastards my fire,’ grunted Yon.
‘Don’t reckon they’ll all be able to fit around it, do you?’
‘Even so.’
‘We can’t even all fit around it.’
‘Still.’
‘Who knows? You leave it, maybe one of those Union fellows burns himself and they all get scared and go home.’
Yon looked up for a moment, then ground the last embers out under his boot. ‘I ain’t leaving those bastards my fire.’
‘That’s it then?’ asked Agrick. Craw found it hard to look in his eye. There was something desperate in it. ‘That’s all the words he gets?’
‘We can say more later, maybe, but for now there’s the living to think on.’
‘We’re giving it up.’ Agrick glared at Shivers, fists clenched, like he was the one killed his brother. ‘He died for nothing. For a fucking hill we ain’t even holding on to! If we hadn’t fought he’d still be alive! You hear that!’ He took a step, might’ve gone for Shivers if Brack hadn’t grabbed him from behind, Craw from in front, holding him tight.
‘I hear it.’ Shivers shrugged, bored. ‘And it ain’t the first time. If I hadn’t gone to Styria I’d still have both my eyes. I went. One eye. We fought. He died. Life only rolls one way and it ain’t always the way we’d like. There it is.’ He turned and strolled off towards the north, axe over his shoulder.
‘Forget about him,’ muttered Craw in Agrick’s ear. He knew what it was to lose a brother. He’d buried all three of his in one morning. ‘You need a man to blame, blame me. I chose to fight.’
‘There was no choice,’ said Brack. ‘It was the right thing to do.’
‘Where’d Drofd get to?’ asked Wonderful, slinging her bow over her shoulder as she walked past. ‘Drofd?’
‘Over here! Just packing up!’ He was down near the wall, where they’d left the bodies of Hardbread’s lot. When Craw got there he was kneeling by one of ’em, going through his pockets. He grinned around, holding out a few coins. ‘Chief, this one had some …’ He trailed off when he saw Craw’s frown. ‘I was going to share it out—’
‘Put it back.’
Drofd blinked at him. ‘But it’s no good to him now—’
‘Ain’t yours is it? Leave it there with Hardbread’s lad and when Hard-bread comes back he’ll decide who gets it.’
‘More’n likely it’ll be Hardbread gets it,’ muttered Yon, coming up behind with his mail draped over his shoulder.
‘Maybe it will be. But it won’t be any of us. There’s a right way of doing things.’
That got a couple of sharp breaths and something close to a groan. ‘No one thinks that way these days, Chief,’ said Scorry, leaning on his spear.
‘Look how rich some no-mark like Sutt Brittle’s made himself,’ said Brack.
‘While we scrape by on a piss-pot staple and the odd gild,’ growled Yon.
‘That’s what you’re due, and I’ll see you get a gild for yesterday’s work. But you’ll leave the bodies be. You want to be Sutt Brittle you can beg a place with Glama Golden’s lot and rob folk all day long.’ Craw wasn’t sure what was making him so prickly. He’d let it pass before. Helped himself more’n once when he was younger. Even Threetrees used to overlook his boys picking a corpse or two. But prickly he was, and now he’d chosen to stand on it he couldn’t back down. ‘What’re we?’ he snapped, ‘Named Men or pickers and thieves?’
‘Poor is what we are, Chief,’ said Yon, ‘and starting to—’
‘What the fuck?’ Wonderful slapped the coins from Drofd’s hand and sent ’em scattering into the grass. ‘When you’re Chief, Jolly Yon Cumber, you can do it your way. ’Til then, we’ll do it Craw’s. We’re Named Men. Or I am, at least – I ain’t convinced about the rest of you. Now move your fat arses before you end up bitching to the Union about your poverty.’
‘We ain’t in this for the coin,’ said Whirrun, ambling past with the Father of Swords over his shoulder.
Yon gave him a dark look. ‘You might not be, Cracknut. Some of us wouldn’t mind a little from time to time.’ But he walked off shaking his head, mail jingling, and Brack and Scorry shrugged at each other, then followed.
Wonderful leaned close to Craw. ‘Sometimes I think the more other folk don’t care a shit the more you think you’ve got to.’
‘Your point?’
‘Can’t make the world a certain way all on your own.’
‘There’s a right way of doing things,’ he snapped.
‘You sure the right way isn’t just trying to keep everyone happy and alive?’
The worst thing was that she had a point. ‘Is that where we’ve come to now?’
‘I thought that’s about where we’ve always been.’
Craw raised a brow at her. ‘You know what? That husband o’ yours really should teach you some respect.’
‘That bitch? He’s almost as scared o’ me as you lot. Let’s go!’ She pulled Drofd up by his elbow, and the dozen made their way through the gap in the wall, moving fast. Or as fast as Craw’s knees would go. They headed north down the ragged track the way they’d come and left the Heroes to the Union.
Craw worked his way through the trees, chewing at the fingernails of his sword hand. He’d already gnawed his shield hand down to his knuckles, more or less. Damn things never grew back fast enough. He’d felt less scared on the way up the Heroes at night than he did going to tell Black Dow he’d lost a hill. Can’t be right when you’re less scared of the enemy than your own Chief, can it? He wished he had some friendly company, but if there was going to be blame he wanted to shoulder it alone. He’d made the choices.
The woods were crawling with men thick as ants in the grass. Black Dow’s own Carls – veterans, cold-headed and cold-hearted and with lots of cold steel to share out. Some had plate armour like the Union wore, others strange weapons, beaked, picked and hooked for punching through steel, all manner of savage inventions new to the world that the world was more’n likely better off without. He doubted any of these would be thinking twice before robbing a few coins off the dead, or the living either.
Craw had been most of his life a fighting man, but crowds of ’em still somehow made him nervous, and the older he got the less he felt he fit. Any day now they’d spot him for a fraud. Realise that keeping his threadbare courage stitched together was harder work every morning. He winced as his teeth bit into the quick and jerked his nails away.
‘Can’t be right,’ he muttered to himself, ‘for a Named Man to be scared all the time.’
‘What?’ Craw had almost forgotten Shivers was there, he moved so silent.
‘You get scared, Shivers?’
A pause, that eye of his glinting as the sun peeped through the branches. ‘Used to. All the time.’
‘What changed?’
‘Got my eye burned out o’ my head.’
So much for calming small talk. ‘Reckon that could change your outlook.’
‘Halves it.’
Some sheep were bleating away beside the track, pressed tight into a pen much too small. Foraged, no doubt, meaning stolen, some unlucky shepherd’s livelihood vanished down the gullets and out the arses of Black Dow’s army. Behind a screen of hides, not two strides from the flock, a woman was slaughtering ’em and three more doing the skinning and gutting and hanging the carcasses, all soaked to the armpits in blood and not caring much about it either.
Two lads, probably just reached fighting age, were watching. Laughing at how stupid the sheep were, not to guess what was happening behind those hides. They didn’t see that they were in the pen, and behind a screen of songs and stories and young men’s dreams, war was waiting, soaked to the armpits and not caring. Craw saw it all well enough. So why was he still sitting meek in his pen? Might be old sheep can’t jump new fences either.
The black standard of the Protector of the North was dug into the earth outside some ivy-wrapped ruin, long ago conquered by the forest. More men busy in the clearing before it, and stirring horses tethered in long rows. A grindstone being pedalled, metal shrieking, sparks spraying. A woman hammering at a cartwheel. A smith working at a hauberk with pincers and a mouthful of mail rings. Children hurrying about with armfuls of shafts, slopping buckets on yokes, sacks of the dead knew what. A complicated business, violence, once the scale gets big enough.
A man sprawled on a stone slab, oddly at ease in the midst of all this work that made nothing, on his elbows, head tipped back, eyes closed. Body all in shadow but a chink of sun from between the branches coming down across his smirk so it was bathed in double brightness.
‘By the dead.’ Craw walked to him and stood looking down. ‘If it ain’t the prince o’ nothing much. Those women’s boots you’re wearing?’
‘Styrian leather.’ Calder’s lids drifted open a slit, that curl to his lip he’d had since a boy. ‘Curnden Craw. You still alive, you old shit?’
‘Bit of a cough, as it goes.’ He hawked up and spat phlegm onto the old stone between Calder’s fancy foot-leather. ‘Reckon I’ll survive, though. Who made the mistake o’ letting you crawl back from exile?’
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