‘Yes. I met him. I spoke to him. He wants to talk. He wants to talk about peace.’ There was a disbelieving silence. ‘I persuaded him to let some wounded men go, as a gesture of good faith. Sixty. It was the best I could do.’

‘You persuaded Black Dow to release prisoners?’ Jalenhorm puffed out his cheeks. ‘That’s quite a thing. Burning them is more his style.’

‘That’s my girl,’ said her father, and the pride in his voice made her feel sick.

Bayaz sat forward. ‘Describe him.’

‘Tallish. Strong-built. Fierce-looking. He was missing his left ear.’

‘Who else was with him?’

‘An older man called Craw, who led me back across the river. A big man with a scarred face and … a metal eye. And …’ It seemed so strange now she was starting to wonder whether she had imagined the whole thing. ‘A black-skinned woman.’

Bayaz’ eyes narrowed, his mouth tightened, and Finree felt the hairs prickling on the back of her neck. ‘A thin, black-skinned woman, wrapped in bandages?’

She swallowed. ‘Yes.’

The First of the Magi sat slowly back, and he and his servant exchanged a long glance. ‘They are here.’

‘I did say.’

‘Can nothing ever be straightforward?’ snapped Bayaz.

‘Rarely, sir,’ replied the servant, his different-coloured eyes shifting lazily from Finree, to her father, and back to his master.

‘Who are here?’ asked a baffled Mitterick.

Bayaz did not bother to answer. He was busy watching Finree’s father, who had crossed to his desk and was starting to write. ‘What are you about, Lord Marshal?’

‘It seems best that I should write to Black Dow and arrange a meeting so we can discuss the terms of an armistice—’

‘No,’ said Bayaz.

‘No?’ There was a pregnant silence. ‘But … it sounds as if he is willing to be reasonable. Should we not at least—’

‘Black Dow is not a reasonable man. His allies are …’ Bayaz’ lip curled and Finree drew Hal’s coat tight around her shoulders. ‘Even less so. Besides, you have done so well today, Lord Marshal. Such fine work from you, and General Mitterick, and Colonel Brock, and the Dogman. Ground taken and sacrifices made and so on. I feel your men deserve another crack at it tomorrow. Just one more day, I think. What’s one day?’

Finree found she was feeling awfully weak. Dizzy. Whatever force had been holding her up for the past few hours was ebbing fast.

‘Lord Bayaz …’ Her father looked trapped in no-man’s-land between pain and bafflement. ‘A day is just a day. We will strive, of course, with every sinew if that is the king’s pleasure, but there is a very good chance that we will not be able to secure a decisive victory in one day—’

‘That would be a question for tomorrow. Every war is only a prelude to talk, Lord Marshal, but it’s all about,’ and the Magus looked up at the ceiling, rubbing one thick thumb against one fingertip, ‘who you talk to. It would be best if we kept news of this among ourselves. Such things can be bad for morale. One more day, if you please.’

Finree’s father obediently bowed his head, but when he crumpled up his half-written letter in one fist his knuckles were white with force. ‘I serve at his Majesty’s pleasure.’

‘So do we all,’ said Jalenhorm. ‘And my men are ready to do their duty! I humbly entreat the right to lead an assault upon the Heroes, and redeem myself on the battlefield.’ As though anyone was redeemed on the battlefield. They were only killed there, as far as Finree could see. Her legs seemed to weigh a ton a piece as she made for the door at the back of the room.

Mitterick was busy gushing his own military platitudes behind her. ‘My division is champing at the bloody bit, don’t worry on that score, Marshal Kroy! Don’t worry about that, Lord Bayaz!’

‘I am not.’

‘We have a bridgehead. Tomorrow we’ll drive the bastards, you’ll see. Just one day more …’

Finree shut the door on their posturing, her back against the wood. Maybe whatever herder had built this barn had lived in this room. Now her father was sleeping there, his bed against one unplastered wall, travelling chests neatly organised against the others like soldiers around a parade ground.

Everything was painful, suddenly. She pulled the sleeve of Hal’s coat back, grimacing at the long cut down her forearm, flesh angry pink along both sides. Probably it would need stitching, but she could not go back out there. Could not face their pitying expressions and their patriotic drivel. It felt as if her neck had ten strings of agony through it and however she moved her head it tugged at one or another. She touched her fingertips to her burning scalp. There was a mass of scab under her greasy hair. She could not stop her hand trembling as she took it away. She almost laughed it was shaking so badly, but it came out as an ugly snort. Would her hair grow back? She snorted again. What did it matter, compared to what she had seen? She found she could not stop snorting. Her breath came ragged, and shuddering, and in a moment her aching ribs were heaving with sobs, the quick breath whooping in her throat, her face crushed up and her mouth twisted, tugging at her split lip. She felt a fool, but her body would not let her stop. She slid down the door until her backside hit stone, and bit on her knuckle to smother her blubbering.

She felt absurd. Worse still, ungrateful. Treacherous. She should have been weeping with joy. She, after all, was the lucky one.

Bones

‘Where’s that scab-faced old cunt hiding?’

The man’s eyes flickered about uncertainly, caught off balance with his cup frozen half way to the water butt. ‘Tenways is up on the Heroes with Dow and the rest, but if you’re—’

‘Get to fuck!’ Calder shoved past him, striding on through Tenways’ puzzled Carls, away from Skarling’s Finger and towards the stones, picked out on their hilltop by the light of campfires behind.

‘We won’t be coming along up there,’ came Deep’s voice in his ear. ‘Can’t watch your arse if you’re minded on sticking it in the wolf’s mouth.’

‘No money’s worth going back to the mud for,’ said Shallow. ‘Nothing is, in my humble opinion.’

‘That’s an interesting point o’ philosophy you’ve stumbled upon,’ said Deep, ‘what’s worth dying for and what ain’t. Not one we’re likely to—’

‘Stay and talk shit, then.’ Calder kept walking, uphill, the cold air nipping at his lungs and a few too many nips from Shallow’s flask burning at his belly. The scabbard of his sword slapped against his calf, as if with every step it was gently reminding him it was there, and that it was far from the only blade about either.

‘What’re you going to do?’ asked Pale-as-Snow, breathing hard from keeping up.

Calder didn’t say anything. Partly because he was too angry to say anything worth hearing. Partly because he thought it made him look big. And partly because he hadn’t a clue what he was going to do, and if he started thinking about it there was every chance his courage would wilt, and quick. He’d done enough nothing that day. He strode through the gap in the drystone wall that ringed the hill, a pair of Black Dow’s Carls frowning as they watched him pass.

‘Just keep calm!’ Hansul shouted from further back. ‘Your father always kept calm!’

‘Shit on what my father did,’ Calder snapped over his shoulder. He was enjoying not having to think and just letting the fury carry him. Sweep him up onto the hill’s flat top and between two of the great stones. Fires burned inside the circle, flames tugged and snapped by the wind, sending up whirls of sparks into the black night. They lit up the inside faces of the Heroes in flickering orange, lit up the faces of the men clustered around them, catching the metal of their mail coats, the blades of their weapons. They clucked and grumbled as Calder strode heedless through them towards the centre of the circle, Pale-as-Snow and Hansul following in his wake.

‘Calder. What are you about?’ Curnden Craw, some staring lad Calder didn’t know beside him. Jolly Yon Cumber and Wonderful were there too. Calder ignored the lot of them, brushed past Cairm Ironhead as he stood watching the flames with his thumbs in his belt.

Tenways was sitting on a log on the other side of the fire, and his flaking horror of a face broke out in a shining grin as he saw Calder coming. ‘If it ain’t pretty little Calder! Help your brother out today, did you, you—’ His eyes went wide for a moment and he tensed, shifting his weight to get up.

Then Calder’s fist crunched into his nose. He squawked as he went over backwards, boots kicking, and Calder was on top of him, flailing away with both fists, bellowing he didn’t even know what. Punching mindlessly at Tenways’ head, and his arms, and his flapping hands. He got another good one on that scabby nose before someone grabbed his elbow and dragged him off.

‘Whoa, Calder, whoa!’ Craw’s voice, he thought, and he let himself be pulled back, thrashing about and shouting like you’re supposed to. As if all he wanted to do was keep fighting when in fact he was all relief to let it be stopped, as he’d run right out of ideas and his left hand was really hurting.

Tenways stumbled up, blood bubbling out of his nostrils as he snarled curses, slapping away a helping hand from one of his men. He drew his sword with that soft metal whisper that somehow sounds so loud, steel gleaming in the firelight. There was a silence, the crowd of curious men around them all heaving a nervous breath together. Ironhead raised his brows, and folded his arms, and took a pace out of the way.

‘You little fucker!’ growled Tenways, and he stepped over the log he’d been sitting on.

Craw dragged Calder behind him and suddenly his sword was out too. Not a moment later a pair of Tenways’ Named Men were beside their Chief, a big bearded bastard and a lean one with a lazy eye, weapons ready, though they looked like men who never had to reach too far for them. Calder felt Pale-as-Snow slide up beside him, blade held low. White-Eye Hansul on his other side, red-faced and puffing from his trek up the hillside but his sword steady. More of Tenways’ boys sprang up, and Jolly Yon Cumber was there with his axe and his shield and his slab of frown.

It was then Calder realised things had gone a bit further than he’d planned on. Not that he’d planned at all. He thought it was probably bad form to leave his sword sheathed, what with everyone else drawing and him having stirred the pot in the first place. So he drew himself, smirking in Tenways’ bloody face.

He’d felt grand when he’d seen his father put on the chain and sit in Skarling’s Chair, three hundred Named Men on their knee to the first King of the Northmen. He’d felt grand when he put his hand on his wife’s belly and felt his child kick for the first time. But he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt such fierce pride as he did in the moment Brodd Tenways’ nose-bone broke under his knuckles.

No way he would’ve said no to more of that feeling.

‘Ah, shit!’ Drofd scrambled up, kicking embers over Beck’s cloak and making him gasp and slap ’em off.

A right commotion had flared up, folk stomping, metal hissing, grunts and curses in the darkness. There was some sort of a fight, and Beck had no idea who’d started it or why or what side he was supposed to be on. But Craw’s dozen were all piling in so he just went with the current, drew his father’s sword and stood shoulder to shoulder with the rest, Wonderful on his left with her curved blade steady, Drofd on his right with a hatchet in his fist and his tongue stuck out between his teeth. Wasn’t so difficult to do, what with everyone else doing it. Would’ve been damn near impossible not to, in fact.

Brodd Tenways and some of his boys were facing ’em across a windblown fire, and he had a lot of blood on his rashy face and maybe a broken nose too. Might be that Calder had been the one to do it, given how he’d come stomping past like that and now was standing next to Craw with sword in hand and smirk on face. Still, the whys didn’t seem too important right then. It was the what nexts that were looming large on everyone’s minds.

‘Put ’em away.’ Craw spoke slow but there was a kind of iron to his voice said he’d be backing down from nothing. It put iron in Beck’s bones, made him feel like he’d be backing down from nothing neither.

Tenways didn’t look like taking any backward steps himself, though. ‘You fucking put ’em away.’ And he spat blood into the fire.

Beck found his eyes had caught a lad’s on the other side, maybe a year or two older’n him. Yellow-haired lad with a scar on one cheek. They turned a little to face each other. As if on an instinct they were all pairing off with the partner who suited ’em best, like folk at a harvest dance. Except this dance seemed likely to shed a lot of blood.

‘Put ’em up,’ growled Craw, and his voice had more iron now. A warning, and the dozen all seemed to shift forwards around him at it, steel rattling.

Tenways showed his rotten teeth. ‘Fucking make me.’

‘I’ll give it a try.’

A man came strolling out of the dark, just his sharp jaw showing in the shadows of his hood, boots crunching heedless through the corner of the fire and sending a flurry of sparks up around his legs. Very tall, very lean and he looked like he was carved out of wood. He was chewing meat from a chicken bone in one greasy hand and in the other, held loose under the crosspiece, he had the biggest sword Beck had ever seen, shoulder-high maybe from point to pommel, its sheath scuffed as a beggar’s boot but the wire on its hilt glinting with the colours of the fire-pit.

He sucked the last shred of meat off his bone with a noisy slurp, and he poked at all the drawn steel with the pommel of his sword, long grip clattering against all those blades. ‘Tell me you lot weren’t working up to a fight without me. You know how much I love killing folk. I shouldn’t, but a man has to stick to what he’s good at. So how’s this for a recipe …’ He worked the bone around between finger and thumb, then flicked it at Tenways so it bounced off his chain mail coat. ‘You go back to fucking sheep and I’ll fill the graves.’

Tenways licked his bloody top lip. ‘My fight ain’t with you, Whirrun.’

And it all came together. Beck had heard songs enough about Whirrun of Bligh, and even hummed a few himself as he fought his way through the logpile. Cracknut Whirrun. How he’d been given the Father of Swords. How he’d killed his five brothers. How he’d hunted the Shimbul Wolf in the endless winter of the utmost North, held a pass against the countless Shanka with only two boys and a woman for company, bested the sorcerer Daroum-ap-Yaught in a battle of wits and bound him to a rock for the eagles. How he’d done all the tasks worthy of a hero in the valleys, and so come south to seek his destiny on the battlefield. Songs to make the blood run hot, and cold too. Might be his was the hardest name in the whole North these days, and standing right there in front of Beck, close enough to lay a hand on. Though that probably weren’t a good idea.

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