Cairm Ironhead.
Sutt Brittle — a famously greedy Named Man. Lightsleep — a Carl in Golden’s employ.
Cairm Ironhead’s Men
Cairm Ironhead — one of Dow’s five War Chiefs, notoriously stubborn, locked in a feud with Glama Golden.
Curly — a stout-hearted scout.
Irig — an ill-tempered axeman.
Temper — a foul-mouthed bowman.
Brodd Tenways — the most loyal of Dow’s five War Chiefs, ugly as incest. Stranger-Come-Knocking — a giant savage obsessed with civilisation, Chief of all the lands east of the Crinna.
Back to the Mud (dead, thought dead, or long dead)
Bethod — the first King of the Northmen, father to Scale and Calder.
Skarling Hoodless — a legendary hero who once united the North against the Union.
The Bloody-Nine — once Bethod’s champion, the most feared man in the North, and briefly King of the Northmen before being killed by Black Dow (supposedly).
Rudd Threetrees — a famously honourable Chief of Uffrith, who fought against Bethod and was beaten in a duel by the Bloody-Nine.
Forley the Weakest — a notoriously weak fighter, companion to Black Dow and the Dogman, ordered killed by Calder.
Shama Heartless — a famous champion killed by the Bloody-Nine. Beck’s father.
BEFORE THE BATTLE
Unhappy the land that is in need of heroes.
The Times
‘Too old for this shit,’ muttered Craw, wincing at the pain in his dodgy knee with every other step. High time he retired. Long past high time. Sat on the porch behind his house with a pipe, smiling at the water as the sun sank down, a day’s honest work behind him. Not that he had a house. But when he got one, it’d be a good one.
He found his way through a gap in the tumble-down wall, heart banging like a joiner’s mallet. From the long climb up the steep slope, and the wild grass clutching at his boots, and the bullying wind trying to bundle him over. But mostly, if he was honest, from the fear he’d end up getting killed at the top. He’d never laid claim to being a brave man and he’d only got more cowardly with age. Strange thing, that — the fewer years you have to lose the more you fear the losing of ’em. Maybe a man just gets a stock of courage when he’s born, and wears it down with each scrape he gets into.
Craw had been through a lot of scrapes. And it looked like he was about to snag himself on another.
He snatched a breather as he finally got to level ground, bent over, rubbing the wind-stung tears from his eyes. Trying to muffle his coughing which only made it louder. The Heroes loomed from the dark ahead, great holes in the night sky where no stars shone, four times man-height or more. Forgotten giants, marooned on their hilltop in the scouring wind. Standing stubborn guard over nothing.
Craw found himself wondering how much each of those great slabs of rock weighed. Only the dead knew how they’d dragged the bastard things up here. Or who had. Or why. The dead weren’t telling, though, and Craw had no plans on joining ’em just to find out.
He saw the faintest glow of firelight now, at the stones’ rough edges. Heard the chatter of men’s voices over the wind’s low growl. That brought back the risk he was taking, and a fresh wave of fear washed up with it. But fear’s a healthy thing, long as it makes you think. Rudd Threetrees told him that, long time ago. He’d thought it through, and this was the right thing to do. Or the least wrong thing, anyway. Sometimes that’s the best you can hope for.
So he took a deep breath, trying to remember how he’d felt when he was young and had no dodgy joints and didn’t care a shit for nothing, picked out a likely gap between two of those big old rocks and strolled through.
Maybe this had been a sacred place, once upon an ancient day, high magic in these stones, the worst of crimes to wander into the circle uninvited. But if any old Gods took offence they’d no way of showing it. The wind dropped away to a mournful sighing and that was all. Magic was in scarce supply and there wasn’t much sacred either. Those were the times.
The light shifted on the inside faces of the Heroes, faint orange on pitted stone, splattered with moss, tangled with old bramble and nettle and seeding grass. One was broken off half way up, a couple more had toppled over the centuries, left gaps like missing teeth in a skull’s grin.
Craw counted eight men, huddled around their wind-whipped campfire with patched cloaks and worn coats and tattered blankets wrapped tight. Firelight flickered on gaunt, scarred, stubbled and bearded faces. Glinted on the rims of their shields, the blades of their weapons. Lots of weapons. Fair bit younger, in the main, but they didn’t look much different to Craw’s own crew of a night. Probably they weren’t much different. He even thought for a moment one man with his face side-on was Jutlan. Felt that jolt of recognition, the eager greeting ready on his lips. Then he remembered Jutlan was twelve years in the ground, and he’d said the words over his grave.
Maybe there are only so many faces in the world. You get old enough, you start seeing ’em used again.
Craw lifted his open hands high, palms forward, doing his best to stop ’em shaking any. ‘Nice evening!’
The faces snapped around. Hands jerked to weapons. One man snatched up a bow and Craw felt his guts drop, but before he got close to drawing the string the man beside him stuck out an arm and pushed it down.
‘Whoa there, Redcrow.’ The one who spoke was a big old lad, with a heavy tangle of grey beard and a drawn sword sitting bright and ready across his knees. Craw found a rare grin, ’cause he knew the face, and his chances were looking better.
Hardbread he was called, a Named Man from way back. Craw had been on the same side as him in a few battles down the years, and the other side from him in a few more. But he’d a solid reputation. A long-seasoned hand, likely to think things over, not kill then ask the questions, which was getting to be the more popular way of doing business. Looked like he was Chief of this lot too, ’cause the lad called Redcrow sulkily let his bow drop, much to Craw’s relief. He didn’t want anyone getting killed tonight, and wasn’t ashamed to say that counted double for his self.
There were still a fair few hours of darkness to get through, though, and a lot of sharpened steel about.
‘By the dead.’ Hardbread sat still as the Heroes themselves, but his mind was no doubt doing a sprint. ‘’Less I’m much mistaken, Curnden Craw just wandered out o’ the night.’
‘You ain’t.’ Craw took a few slow paces forwards, hands still high, doing his best to look light-hearted with eight sets of unfriendly eyes weighing him down.
‘You’re looking a little greyer, Craw.’
‘So are you, Hardbread.’
‘Well, you know. There’s a war on.’ The old warrior patted his stomach. ‘Plays havoc with my nerves.’
