‘I respectfully disagree, on both counts. War is a wonderful thing for redemption.’ Jalenhorm narrowed his eyes at the Heroes, seeming so close now, just across the water. ‘If you smile in the face of danger, acquit yourself well, stand your ground, then, live or die, you are made new. Battle can make a man … clean, can’t it?’
‘Me?’
‘Who else? Two days ago, here at these very shallows, you charged the enemy alone and saved my division. An established fact, I witnessed part of the action myself. And yesterday you were at the Old Bridge?’ Gorst frowned at nothing. ‘You forced a crossing when Mitterick’s men were mired in the filth, a crossing that may very well win this battle for us today. You are an inspiration, Bremer. You prove that one man still can be worth something in the midst of … all this. You do not need to fight here today, and yet you stand ready to give your life for king and country.’
‘Heroes are quickly fashioned from the basest materials. Quickly fashioned, and quickly replaced. If I qualify, they are worthless.’
‘I beg to differ.’
‘Differ, by all means, but please … remain behind the lines.’
Jalenhorm gave a sad little smile, and he reached out, and tapped at Gorst’s dented shoulder-plate with his fist. ‘Your concern for my safety really is touching, Bremer. But I’m afraid I cannot do it. I cannot do it any more than you can.’
‘No.’ Gorst frowned up towards the hill, a black mass against the stained sky. ‘A shame.’
Calder squinted through his father’s eyeglass. Beyond the circle of light cast by all the lamps, the fields faded into shifting blackness. Down towards the Old Bridge he could pick out spots of brightness, perhaps the odd glint of metal, but not much more. ‘Do you think they’re ready?’
‘I can see horses,’ said Pale-as-Snow. ‘A lot of horses.’
‘You can? I can’t see a bloody thing.’
‘They’re there.’
‘You think they’re watching?’
‘I reckon they are.’
‘Mitterick watching?’
‘I would be.’
Calder squinted up at the sky, starting to show grey between the fast-moving clouds. Only the most committed optimist could’ve called it dawn, and he wasn’t one. ‘Guess it’s time, then.’
He took one more swig from the flask, rubbed at his aching bladder, then passed it over to Pale-as-Snow and clambered up the stack of crates, blinking into the lamplight, conspicuous as a shooting star. He took a look over his shoulder at the ranks of men ranged behind him, dark shapes in front of the long wall. He didn’t really understand them, or like them, and they felt the same about him, but they had one powerful thing in common. They’d all basked in his father’s glory. They’d been great men because of who they served. Because they’d sat at the big table in Skarling’s Hall, in the places of honour. They’d all fallen a long way when Calder’s father died. It looked like none of them could stand to fall any further, which was a relief, since a Chief without soldiers is just a very lonely man in a big bloody field.
He was very much aware of all those eyes on him as he unlaced. The eyes of a couple of thousand of his boys behind, and a fair few of Tenways’ too, and the eyes of a few thousand Union cavalry ahead, he hoped, General Mitterick among them, ready to pop his skull with anger.
Nothing. Try to relax or try to push? Bloody typical, that would be, all this effort and he found he couldn’t go. To make matters worse the wind was keen and it was freezing the end of his prick. The man holding up the flag on his left, a grizzled old Carl with a great scar right across one cheek, was watching his efforts with a slightly puzzled expression.
‘Can you not look?’ snapped Calder.
‘Sorry, Chief.’ And he cleared his throat and almost daintily averted his eyes.
Maybe it was being called Chief that got him over the hump. Calder felt that hint of pain down in his bladder, and he grinned, let it build, let his head drop back, looked up at the bruised sky.
‘Hah.’ Piss showered out, drops shining in the lamplight, and spattered all over the first flag with a sound like rain on the daisies. Behind Calder, a wave of laughter swept down the lines. Easily pleased, maybe, but large bodies of fighting men don’t tend to go for subtle jokes. They go for shit, and piss, and people falling over.
‘And some for you too.’ He sent a neat arc across the other flag, and he smirked towards the Union as wide as he could. Behind him men started to jump up, and dance about, and jeer across the barley. He might not be much of a warrior, or a leader, but he knew how to make men laugh, and how to make them angry. With his free hand he pointed up at the sky, and he gave a great whoop, and he shook his hips around and sent piss shooting all over the place. ‘I’d shit on ’em too,’ he shouted over his shoulder, ‘but I’m all bound up from White-Eye’s stew!’
‘I’ll shit on ’em!’ someone shrieked, to a scattering of shrill chuckles.
‘Save it for the Union, you can shit on them when they get here!’
And the men whooped and laughed, shook their weapons at the sky and clattered them against their shields and sent up quite the happy din. A couple had even climbed up on the wall and were pissing at the Union lines themselves. Maybe they found it a good deal funnier because they knew what was coming, just across the other side of the barley, but still Calder smiled to hear it. At least he’d stood up, and done one thing worth singing about. At least he’d given his father’s men a laugh. His brother’s men. His men.
Before they all got fucking murdered.
Beck thought he could hear laughter echoing on the wind, but he’d no idea what anyone might have to laugh about. It was getting light enough to see across the valley now. Light enough to get an idea of the Union’s numbers. To begin with Beck hadn’t believed those faint blocks on the other side of the shallows could be solid masses of men. Then he’d tried to make himself believe they weren’t. Now there was no denying it.
‘There are thousands of ’em,’ he breathed.
‘I know!’ Whirrun was nearly jumping with happiness. ‘And the more there are, the more our glory, right, Craw?’
Craw took a break from chewing his nails. ‘Oh, aye. I wish there were twice as many.’
‘By the dead, so do I!’ Whirrun dragged in a long breath and blew it through a beaming smile. ‘But you never know, maybe they’ve got more out of sight!’
‘We can hope,’ grunted Yon out of the corner of his mouth.
‘I fucking love war!’ squeaked Whirrun. ‘I fucking love it, though, don’t you?’
Beck didn’t say anything.
‘The smell of it. The feel of it.’ He rubbed one hand up and down the stained sheath of his sword, making a faint swishing sound. ‘War is honest. There’s no lying to it. You don’t have to say sorry here. Don’t have to hide. You cannot. If you die? So what? You die among friends. Among worthy foes. You die looking the Great Leveller in the eye. If you live? Well, lad, that’s living, isn’t it? A man isn’t truly alive until he’s facing death.’ Whirrun stamped his foot into the sod. ‘I love war! Just a shame Ironhead’s down there on the Children. Do you reckon they’ll even get all the way up here, Craw?’
‘Couldn’t say.’
‘I reckon they will. I hope they will. Better come before the rain starts, though. That sky looks like witch’s work, eh?’ It was true there was a strange colour to the first hint of sunrise, great towers of sullen-looking cloud marching in over the fells to the north. Whirrun bounced up and down on his toes. ‘Oh, bloody hell, I can’t wait!’
‘Ain’t they people too, though?’ muttered Beck, thinking of the face of that Union man lying dead in the shack yesterday. ‘Just like us?’
Whirrun squinted across at him. ‘More than likely they are. But if you start thinking like that, well … you’ll get no one killed at all.’
