The Heroes

through her stiff neck. ‘I can unmake you.’

She swallowed. ‘I understand.’

‘Then I wish you good day!’ And Bayaz released her and the scroll, all smiles again. ‘Please convey the happy news to your husband, though I must ask that you keep it between yourselves for the time being. People might not appreciate, as you do, quite how the magic works. I shall convey your husband’s acceptance to his Majesty along with the news that he made the offer. Shall I?’

Finree cleared her throat. ‘By all means.’

‘My colleagues on the Closed Council will be delighted that the matter has been put to rest so swiftly. You must visit Adua when your husband is recovered. The formalities of his appointment. A parade, or some such. Hours of pomp in the Lords’ Round. Breakfast with the queen.’ Bayaz raised one eyebrow as he turned away. ‘You really should procure some better clothes. Something with a heroic air.’

The room was clean and bright, light streaming in through a window and across the bed. No sobbing. No blood. No missing limbs. No awful not knowing. The luck of it. One arm was bound under the covers, the other lying pale on the sheet, knuckles scabbed over, gently rising and falling with his breath.

‘Hal.’ He grunted, eyelids flickering open. ‘Hal, it’s me.’

‘Fin.’ He reached up and touched her cheek with his fingertips. ‘You came.’

‘Of course.’ She folded his hand in hers. ‘How are you?’

He shifted, winced, then gave a weak smile. ‘Bit stiff, honestly, but lucky. Damn lucky to have you. I heard you dragged me out of the rubble. Shouldn’t I be the one rushing to your rescue?’

‘If it helps it was Bremer dan Gorst who found you and carried you back. I just ran around crying, really.’

‘You’ve always cried easily, it’s one thing I love about you.’ His eyes started to drift shut. ‘I suppose I can live with Gorst … doing the saving …’

She squeezed his hand tighter. ‘Hal, listen to me, something has happened. Something wonderful.’

‘I heard.’ His eyelids moved lazily. ‘Peace.’

She shrugged it off. ‘Not that. Well, yes, that, but …’ She leaned over him, wrapping her other hand around his. ‘Hal, listen to me. You’re getting your father’s seat in the Open Council.’

‘What?’

‘Some of his lands, too. They want us … you … the king wants you to take Meed’s place.’

Hal blinked. ‘As general of his division?’

‘As lord governor of Angland.’

For a moment he looked simply stunned then, as he studied her face, worried. ‘Why me?’

‘Because you’re a good man.’ And a good compromise. ‘A hero, apparently. Your deeds have come to the notice of the king.’

‘Hero?’ He snorted. ‘How did you do it?’ He tried to get up onto his elbows but she put a hand on his chest and held him gently down.

Now was the opportunity to tell him the truth. The idea barely crossed her mind. ‘You did it. You were right after all. Hard work and loyalty and all those things. Leading from the front. That’s how you get on.’

‘But…’

‘Shhhh.’ And she kissed him on one side of the lips, and on the other, and in the middle. His breath was foul, but she did not care. She was not about to let him ruin this. ‘We can talk about it later. You rest, now.’

‘I love you,’ he whispered.

‘I love you too.’ Gently stroking his face as he slipped back into sleep. It was true. He was a good man. One of the best. Honest, brave, loyal to a fault. They were well matched. Optimist and pessimist, dreamer and cynic. And what is love anyway, but finding someone who suits you? Someone who makes up for your shortcomings?

Someone you can work with. Work on.

Terms

‘They’re late,’ grumbled Mitterick.

The table had six chairs around it. His Majesty’s new lord marshal occupied one, stuffed into a dress uniform swaddled with braid and too tight about his neck. Bayaz occupied another, drumming his thick fingers upon the tabletop. The Dogman slumped in the third, frowning up towards the Heroes, a muscle on the side of his head occasionally twitching.

Gorst stood a pace behind Mitterick’s chair, arms folded. Beside him was Bayaz’ servant, a map of the north rolled up in his hands. Behind them, posed stiffly within the ring of stones but out of earshot, were a handful of the most senior remaining officers of the army. A sadly denuded complement. Meed, and Wetterlant, and Vinkler, and plenty more beside could not be with us. Jalenhorm too. Gorst frowned up towards the Heroes. Standing on first name terms with me is as good as a death sentence, it seems. His Majesty’s Twelfth Regiment were all in attendance, though, arrayed in parade ground order just outside the Children on the south side, their forest of shouldered halberds glittering in the chilly sun. A little reminder that we seek peace today, but are more than prepared for the alternative.

In spite of his battered head, burning cheek, a score of other cuts and scrapes and the countless bruises outside and in, Gorst was more than prepared for the alternative as well. Itching for it, in fact. What employment would I find in peacetime, after all? Teach swordsmanship to sneering young officers? Lurk about the court like a lame dog, hoping for scraps? Sent as royal observer to the sewers of Keln? Or give up training, and run to fat, and become an embarrassing drunk trading on old stories of almost-glory. You know that’s Bremer dan Gorst, who was once the king’s First Guard? Let’s buy the squeaking joke a drink! Let’s buy him ten so we can watch him piss himself!

Gorst felt his frown grow deeper. Or … should I take up Black Dow’s offer? Should I go where they sing songs about men like me instead of sniggering at their disgrace? Where peace need never come at all? Bremer dan Gorst, hero, champion, the most feared man in the North…

‘Finally,’ grunted Bayaz, bringing a sharp end to the fantasy.

There was the unmistakable sound of soldiers on the move and a body of Northmen began to tramp down the long slope from the Heroes, the rims of their painted shields catching the light. It seems the enemy are prepared for the alternative, too. Gorst gently loosened his spare long steel in its sheath, watchful for any sign of an ambush. Itching for it, in fact. A single Northern toe too close and he would draw. And peace would simply be one more thing in my life that failed to happen.

But to his disappointment the great majority halted on the gently sloping ground outside the Children, no nearer to the centre than the soldiers of the Twelfth. Several more stopped just inside the stones, balancing out the officers on the Union side. A truly vast man, black hair shifting in the breeze, was conspicuous among them. So was the one in gilded armour whose face Gorst had so enthusiastically beaten on the first day of the battle. He clenched his fist at the memory, fervently hoping for the chance to do it again.

Four men approached the table, but of Black Dow there was no sign. The foremost among them had a fine cloak, a very handsome face and the slightest mocking smile. In spite of a bandaged hand and a fresh scar down the middle of his chin, no one had ever looked more carelessly, confidently in charge. And I hate him already.

‘Who is that?’ muttered Mitterick.

‘Calder.’ The Dogman’s frown had grown deeper than ever. ‘Bethod’s youngest son. And a snake.’

‘More of a worm,’ said Bayaz, ‘but it is Calder.’

Two old warriors flanked him, one pale-skinned, pale-haired, a pale fur around his shoulders, the other heavyset with a broad, weathered face. A fourth followed, axe at his belt, terribly scarred on one cheek. His eye gleamed as if made of metal, but that was not what made Gorst blink. He felt a creeping sense of recognition. Did I see him in the battle yesterday? Or the day before? Or was it somewhere before that…

‘You must be Marshal Kroy.’ Calder spoke the common tongue with only a trace of the North.

‘Marshal Mitterick.’