The Great Leveller: Best Served Cold, The Heroes and Red Country (121 page)

‘Four hundred men?’ said Klige. ‘Across a bog?’

‘What sort of a bog is it?’ muttered Worth.

‘A bog!’ Yolk squealed, like a tiny, angry dog yapping at a bigger one. ‘A bloody bog! A massive load of mud! What other sort of bog would it be?’

‘But …’ Lederlingen stared after Forest, and then at his horse, onto which he’d just loaded most of his gear and some of Tunny’s. ‘This is stupid.’

Tunny rubbed at his tired eyes with finger and thumb. How often had he had to explain this to a set of recruits? ‘Look. You think how stupid people are most of the time. Old men drunk. Women at a village fair. Boys throwing stones at birds. Life. The foolishness and the vanity, the selfishness and the waste. The
pettiness,
the
silliness.
You think in a war it must be different. Must be better. With death around the corner, men united against hardship, the cunning of the enemy, people must think harder, faster, be … better. Be
heroic.’

He started to heave his packages down from his horse’s saddle. ‘Only it’s just the same. In fact, do you know, because of all that pressure, and worry, and fear, it’s worse. There aren’t many men who think clearest when the
stakes are highest. So people are even stupider in a war than the rest of the time. Thinking about how they’ll dodge the blame, or grab the glory, or save their skins, rather than about what will actually
work.
There’s no job that forgives stupidity more than soldiering. No job that encourages it more.’

He looked at his recruits and found they were all staring back, horrified. Except for an oblivious Yolk, straining on tiptoe to get his spear down from his horse, perhaps the largest in the regiment. ‘Never mind,’ he snapped. ‘This bog won’t cross itself.’ He turned his back on them, patted his horse gently on the neck and sighed. ‘Oh well, old girl. Guess you’ll have to manage a little longer without me.’

S
corry was cutting hair when Craw got back to his dozen, or the seven who were left, leastways. Eight including him. He wondered if there’d ever been a dozen that actually had the full twelve. Sure as hell his never had. Agrick sat on a fallen tree trunk all coated with ivy, frowning into nowhere as the shears snip-snipped around his face.

Whirrun was leaning against a tree, the Father of Swords stood up on its point and the hilt cradled in his folded arms. He’d stripped his shirt off for some reason and stood there in a leather vest, a big grey stain of old sweat down the front and his long, sinewy arms sticking out. Seemed as if the more dangerous things got the more clothes he liked to lose. Probably have his arse out by the time they were finished with this valley.

‘Craw!’ he shouted, lifting his sword and shaking it around.

‘Hey, Chief.’ Drofd sitting on a branch above with back against trunk. Whittling a stick for an arrow shaft, shavings fluttering down.

‘Black Dow didn’t kill you, then?’ asked Wonderful.

‘Not right on the spot, anyway.’

‘Did he tell you what’s to do?’ Yon nodded towards the men crowding the woods all around. He had a lot less hair than when Craw left and it made him look older somehow, creases around his eyes and grey in his brows Craw never noticed before. ‘I get the feeling Dow’s planning to go.’

‘That he is.’ Craw winced as he squatted down in the brush, peering south. Seemed a different world out there beyond the treeline. All dark and comforting under the leaves. Quiet, like being sunk in cool water. All bathed in harsh sunlight outside. Yellow-brown barley under the blue sky, the Heroes bulging up vivid green from the valley, the old stones on top, still standing their pointless watch.

Craw pointed over to their left, towards Osrung, the town no more’n a hint of a high fence and a couple of grey towers over the crops. ‘Reachey’s going to move first, make a charge on Osrung.’ He found he was whispering, even though the Union were a good few hundred strides away on top of a hill and could hardly have heard him if he screamed. ‘He’ll be carrying
all the standards, make it look like that’s the big push. Hope to draw some men down off the Heroes.’

‘Reckon they’ll fall for that?’ asked Yon. ‘Pretty thin, ain’t it?’

Craw shrugged. ‘Any trick looks thin to them who know it’s coming.’

‘Don’t make too much difference whether they go or not, though.’ Whirrun was stretching now, hanging from a tree branch, sword slung over his back. ‘We still got the same hill to climb.’

‘Might help if there’s half as many Union at the top when we get there,’ Drofd tossed down from his own perch.

‘Let’s hope they fall for it then, eh?’ Craw moved his hand to the right, towards the field and pasture between Osrung and the Heroes. ‘If they do send men down from the hill, that’s when Golden’s going with his horse. Catch those boys trousers down in the open and spill ’em all the way back to the river.’

‘Drown those fuckers,’ grunted Agrick, with rare bloodthirstiness.

‘Meantime Dow’s going to make the main effort. Straight at the Heroes, Ironhead and Tenways alongside with all their lads.’

‘How’s he going to work it?’ asked Wonderful, rubbing at her new scar.

Craw gave her a look. ‘Black Dow, ain’t it? He’s going to run up there head on and make mud of everything ain’t mud already.’

‘And us?’

Craw swallowed. ‘Aye. We’ll be along.’

‘Front and centre, eh?’

‘Up that bloody hill again?’ growled Yon.

‘Almost makes you wish we’d fought the Union for it last time,’ said Whirrun, swinging from one branch to another.

Craw pointed to their right. ‘Scale’s over there in the woods under Salt Fell. Once Dow’s made his move, he’s going to charge his horsemen down the Ustred Road and snatch the Old Bridge. Him and Calder.’

Amazing how much Yon could disapprove with just a shake of his head. ‘Your old mate Calder, eh?’

‘That’s right.’ Craw looked straight at him. ‘My old mate Calder.’

‘Then this lovely valley and all its nothing much shall be ours!’ sang Whirrun. ‘Again.’

‘Dow’s, at any rate,’ said Wonderful.

Drofd was counting the names off on his fingers. ‘Reachey, Golden, Ironhead, Tenways, Scale and Dow himself … that’s a lot o’ men.’

Craw nodded. ‘Might be the most ever fought for the North in one spot.’

‘There’s going to be quite a battle here,’ said Yon. ‘Quite the hell of a battle.’

‘One for the songs!’ Whirrun had hooked his legs over the branch and was hanging upside down now, for some reason best known to his self.

‘We’re going to make a right mess o’ those Southerners.’ Drofd didn’t sound entirely convinced, though.

‘By the dead, I hope so,’ mouthed Craw.

Yon edged forwards. ‘Did you get our gild, Chief?’

Craw winced. ‘Dow weren’t in the mood to bring it up.’ There was a round of groans at that, just like he’d known there would be. ‘I’ll get it later, don’t worry. It’s owed and you’ll get it. I’ll talk to Splitfoot.’

Wonderful sucked her teeth. ‘You’d be better trying to get sense from Whirrun than coin out o’ Splitfoot.’

‘I heard that!’ called Whirrun.

‘Think on this,’ said Craw, slapping Yon’s chest with the back of his hand. ‘You get up that hill you’ll be owed another gild. Two at once. Ain’t going to be time to spend it now anyway, is there? We got a battle to fight.’

That much no one could argue with. Men were moving through the woods now, all geared-up and ready. Rustling and rattling, whispering and clattering, forming a kneeling line stretching off both ways between the tree trunks. Sunlight came ragged through the branches, patching on frowning faces, glinting on helmet and drawn sword.

‘When were we last in a proper battle, anyway?’ muttered Wonderful.

‘There was that skirmish down near Ollensand,’ said Craw.

Yon spat. ‘Don’t hardly call that proper.’

‘Up in the High Places,’ said Scorry, finishing the cutting and brushing the hair from Agrick’s shoulders. ‘Trying to prise Ninefingers out of that bloody crack of a valley.’

‘Seven years ago, was it? Eight?’ Craw shuddered at the memory of that nightmare, scores of fighters crowded into a gap in the rock so tight no one could hardly breathe, so tight no one could swing, just prick at each other, knee at each other, bite at each other. Never thought he’d come through that little slice of horror alive. Why the hell would a man choose to risk it again?

He looked at that shallow bowl of crop-filled country between the woods and the Heroes. Looked a bloody long way for an old man with more’n one dodgy leg to run. Glorious charges came up a lot in the songs, but there was one advantage to the defensive no one could deny – the enemy come to you. He shifted from one leg to the other, trying to find the best spot for his knee, and his ankle, and his hip, but a variety of agony was the best he could manage. He snorted to himself. True of life in general, that was.

He looked around to check his dozen were all ready. Got quite the shock to see Black Dow himself down on one knee in the ferns not ten strides distant, axe in one hand, sword in the other, Splitfoot and Shivers and his closest Carls at his back. He’d put aside his furs and finery and looked about like any other man in the line. Except for his fierce grin, like he was
looking forward to this as much as Craw was wondering if there was a way free of it.

‘Nobody get killed, aye?’ He looked around ’em all as he pressed Scorry’s hand. They all shook their heads, gave frowns or nervous grins, said ‘no’, or ‘aye’, or ‘not me’. All except Brack, sat staring out towards the trees like he was on his own, sweat beading his big, pale face.

‘Don’t get killed, eh, Brack?’

The hillman looked at Craw as if he’d only just realised he was there. ‘What?’

‘You all right?’

‘Aye.’ Taking Craw’s hand and giving it a clammy press. ‘’Course.’

‘That leg good to run on?’

‘I’ve had more pain taking a shit.’

Craw raised his brows. ‘Well, a good shit can be quite punishing, can’t it?’

‘Chief.’ Drofd nodded over towards the light beyond the trees and Craw hunched a little lower. There were men moving out there. Mounted men, though only their heads and shoulders showed from where Craw was crouching.

‘Union scouts,’ whispered Wonderful in his ear. Dogman’s lads, maybe, worked their way through the fields and the farmhouses and were casting out towards the treeline. The forest the whole length of the valley was crawling with armed and armoured Northmen. It was a wonder they weren’t seen yet.

Dow knew it, ’course. He coolly waved his axe over to the east, like he was asking for some beer to be brought over. ‘Best tell Reachey to go, ’fore they spoil our surprise.’ The word went out, that same gesture of Dow’s arm copied down the line in a wave.

‘Here we bloody go again, then,’ grunted Craw between chewing on his nails.

‘Here we go,’ Wonderful forced through tight lips, sword drawn in her hand.

‘I’m too old for this shit.’

‘Yep.’

‘Should’ve married Colwen.’

‘Aye.’

‘High time I retired.’

‘True.’

‘Could you stop fucking agreeing with me?’

‘Ain’t that the point of a Second? Support the Chief, no matter what! So I agree. You’re too old and you should’ve married Colwen and retired.’

Craw sighed as he offered his hand. ‘My thanks for your support.’

She gave it a squeeze. ‘Always.’

The deep, low blast of Reachey’s horn throbbed out from the east. Seemed to make the earth buzz, tickle at the roots of Craw’s hair. More horns, then came the feet, like distant thunder mixed with metal. He strained forwards, peering between the black tree trunks, trying to get a glimpse of Reachey’s men. Could hardly see more than a few of Osrung’s roofs across the sun-drenched fields. Then the war cries started, floating out over the valley, echoing through the trees like ghosts. Craw felt his skin tingling, part fear at what was coming and part wanting to spring up and add his own voice to the clamour.

‘Soon enough,’ he whispered, licking his lips as he stood, hardly noticing the pain in his leg no more.

‘I’d say so.’ Whirrun came up beside him, Father of Swords drawn and held under the crosspiece, his other hand pointing towards the Heroes. ‘Do you see that, Craw?’ Looked like there might be men moving at the top of the green slopes. Gathering around a standard, maybe. ‘They’re coming down. Going to be a happy meeting with Golden’s lads out in those fields, ain’t it?’ He gave his soft, high chuckle. ‘A happy meeting.’

Craw slowly shook his head. ‘Ain’t you worried at all?’

‘Why? Didn’t I say? Shoglig told me the time and place of my death, and—’

‘It’s not here and it’s not now, aye, only about ten thousand bloody times.’ Craw leaned in to whisper. ‘Did she tell you whether you’d get both your legs cut off here, though?’

‘No, that she didn’t,’ Whirrun had to admit. ‘But what difference would that make to my life, will you tell me? You can still sit around a fire and talk shit with no legs.’

‘Maybe they’ll cut your arms off too.’

‘True. If that happens … I’ll have to at least consider retirement. You’re a good man, Curnden Craw.’ And Whirrun poked him in the ribs. ‘Maybe I’ll pass the Father of Swords on to you, if you’re still breathing when I cross to the distant shore.’