‘Most you could do, far as I’m concerned. Tell Seff for me … well, tell her I’m sorry.’
‘I will.’
‘And cheer up. This isn’t a funeral.’ He nudged the old man in the ribs. ‘Yet.’ The scatter of chuckles he got for that made him feel a little less like shitting his trousers. There was a soft, low laugh among them, too. One that came from very high up. Stranger-Come-Knocking, and by all appearances on Calder’s side. ‘You’re holding a shield for me?’
The giant tapped the tiny-looking circle of wood with his club of a forefinger. ‘I am.’
‘What’s your interest?’
‘In the clash of vengeful steel and the blood watering the thirsty earth? In the roar of the victor and the scream of the slaughtered? What could interest me more than seeing men give all and take all, life and death balanced on the edge of a blade?’
Calder swallowed. ‘Why on my side, though?’
‘There was room.’
‘Right.’ That was about all he had to offer now. A good spot to watch his own murder. ‘Did you come for the room?’ he asked Pale-as-Snow.
‘I came for you, and for Scale, and for your father.’
‘And me,’ said White-Eye Hansul.
After all the hate he’d shrugged off, that bit of loyalty almost cracked his smirk wide open. ‘Means a lot,’ he croaked. The really sad thing was that it was true. He thumped White-Eye’s shield with his fist, squeezed Pale-as- Snow’s shoulder. ‘Means a lot.’
But the time for hugs and damp eyes was fading rapidly into the past. There was noise in the crowd across the circle, then movement, then the shield-carriers stood aside. The Protector of the North strolled through the gap, easy as a gambler who’d already won the big bet, his black standard looming behind him like the shadow of death indeed. He’d stripped down to a leather vest, arms and shoulders heavy with branched vein and twisted sinew, the chain Calder’s father used to wear hanging around his neck, diamond winking.
Hands clapped, weapons rattled, metal clanged on metal, everyone straining to get the faintest approving glance from the man who’d seen off the Union. Everyone cheering, even on Calder’s side of the circle. He could hardly blame them. They’d still have to scratch a living when Dow had carved him into weeping chunks.
‘You made it, then.’ Dow jerked his head towards Shivers. ‘I was worried my dog might’ve eaten you in the night.’ There was a good deal more laughter than the joke deserved but Shivers didn’t so much as twitch, his scarred face a dead blank. Dow grinned around at the Heroes, their lichen-spotted tops peering over the heads of the crowd, and opened his arms, fingers spread. ‘Looks like we got a circle custom made for the purpose, don’t it? Quite the venue!’
‘Aye,’ said Calder. That was about all the bravado he could manage.
‘Normally there’s a form to follow.’ Dow turned one finger round and round. ‘Laying out the matter to decide, listing the pedigree of the champions and so on, but I reckon we can skip that. We all know the matter. We all know you got no pedigree.’ Another laugh, and Dow spread his arms again. ‘And if I start naming all the men I’ve put back in the mud we’ll never get started!’
A flood of thigh-slapping manly amusement. Seemed Dow was intent on proving himself the better wit as well as the better fighter, and it was no fairer a contest. Winners always get the louder laughs and, for once, Calder was out of jokes. Dead men aren’t that funny, maybe. So he just stood as the crowd quieted and left only the gentle wind over the muck, the flapping of the black standard, a bird chirruping from the top of one of the stones.
Dow heaved out a sigh. ‘Sorry to say I’ve had to send to Carleon for your wife. She stood hostage for you, didn’t she?’
‘Let her be, you bastard!’ barked Calder, nearly choking on a surge of anger. ‘She’s got no part in this!’
‘You’re in no place to tell me what’s what, you little shit.’ Dow turned his head without taking his eyes off Calder, and spat into the mud. ‘I’ve half a mind to burn her. Give her the bloody cross, just for the fucking lesson. Wasn’t that the way your father liked to do it, back in the old days?’ Dow held up his open palm. ‘But I can afford to be generous. Reckon I’ll let it pass. Out of respect to Caul Reachey, since he’s the one man in the North who still does what he fucking says he will.’
‘I’m right grateful for it,’ grunted Reachey, still not meeting Calder’s eye.
‘’Spite of my reputation, I don’t much care for hanging women. I get any softer they’ll have to call me White Dow!’ Another round of laughter, and Dow let go a flurry of punches at the air, so fast Calder could hardly count how many. ‘Reckon I’ll just have to kill you twice as much to make up for it.’
Something poked him in the ribs. The pommel of his sword, Pale-as-Snow handing it over with a look that said sorry, belt wrapped around the sheath.
‘Oh, right. You got any advice?’ asked Calder, hoping the old warrior would narrow his eyes and spout some razor observations about how Dow led with the point too much, or dipped his shoulder too low, or was awfully vulnerable to a middle cut.
All he did was puff out his cheeks. ‘It’s fucking Black Dow,’ he muttered.
‘Right.’ Calder swallowed sour spit. ‘Thanks for that.’ It was all so disappointing. He drew his sword, held the sheath uncertainly for a moment, then handed it back. Couldn’t see why he’d have any need for it again. There was no talking his way out of this. Sometimes you have to fight. He took a long breath and a step forwards, his worn-out Styrian boot squelching into the muck. Only a little step over a ring of pebbles, but still the hardest he’d ever taken.
Dow stretched his head one way, then the other, then drew his own blade, taking his time about it, metal hissing softly. ‘This was the Bloody-Nine’s sword. I beat him, man against man. You know. You were there. So what do you reckon your fucking chances are?’ Looking at that long grey blade, Calder didn’t reckon his chances were very good at all. ‘Didn’t I warn you? If you tried to play your own games things’d get ugly.’ Dow swept the faces around the circle with his scowl. It was true, there were few pretty ones among them. ‘But you had to preach peace. Had to spread your little lies around. You had to…’
‘Shut your fucking hole and get
A mutter went up, then some laughter, then another, bowel-loosening round of clattering metal. Dow shrugged, and took his own step forwards.
There was a rattle as men eased inwards, rims of their shields scraping, locking together. Locking them in. A round wall of bright painted wood. Green trees, dragon heads, rivers running, eagles flying, some scarred and beaten from the work of the last few days. A ring of hungry faces, teeth bared in snarls and grins, eyes bright with expectation. Just Calder, and Black Dow, and no way out but blood.
Calder probably should’ve been thinking about how he might beat the long, long odds, and get out of this alive. Opening gambits, thrust or feint, footwork, all the rest. Because he had a chance, didn’t he? Two men fight, there’s always a chance. But all he could think about was Seff’s face, and how beautiful it was. He wished he’d been able to see it one more time. Tell her that he loved her, or not to worry, or to forget him and live her life or some other useless shit. His father always told him, ‘You find out what a man really is, when he’s facing death.’ It seemed, after all, he was a sentimental little prick. Maybe we all are at the end.
Calder raised his sword, open hand out in front, the way he thought he remembered being taught. Had to attack. That’s what Scale would’ve said. If you’re not attacking you’re losing. He realised too late his hand was trembling.
Dow looked him up and down, his own blade hanging carelessly at his side, and snorted a joyless chuckle. ‘I guess not every duel’s worth singing about.’ And he darted forwards, lashing out underhand with a flick of his wrist.
Calder really shouldn’t have been surprised to see a sword coming at him. That was what a duel was all about, after all. But even so he was pitifully unprepared. He lurched a pace back and Dow’s sword crashed into his with numbing force, near ripping it from his hand, sending the blade flapping sideways and him stumbling, spare arm flailing for balance, all thought of attacking barged away by the overwhelming need to survive just one more moment.
Fortunately White-Eye Hansul’s shield caught his back and spared him the indignity of sprawling in the mud, pushed him up straight in time to reel sideways as Dow sprang again, sword catching Calder’s with a clang and wrenching his wrist the other way, a hearty cheer going up. Calder floundered back, cold with terror, trying to put
