songs and stories and young men’s dreams, war was waiting, soaked to the armpits and not caring. Craw saw it all well enough. So why was he still sitting meek in his pen? Might be old sheep can’t jump new fences either.
The black standard of the Protector of the North was dug into the earth outside some ivy-wrapped ruin, long ago conquered by the forest. More men busy in the clearing before it, and stirring horses tethered in long rows. A grindstone being pedalled, metal shrieking, sparks spraying. A woman hammering at a cartwheel. A smith working at a hauberk with pincers and a mouthful of mail rings. Children hurrying about with armfuls of shafts, slopping buckets on yokes, sacks of the dead knew what. A complicated business, violence, once the scale gets big enough.
A man sprawled on a stone slab, oddly at ease in the midst of all this work that made nothing, on his elbows, head tipped back, eyes closed. Body all in shadow but a chink of sun from between the branches coming down across his smirk so it was bathed in double brightness.
‘By the dead.’ Craw walked to him and stood looking down. ‘If it ain’t the prince o’ nothing much. Those women’s boots you’re wearing?’
‘Styrian leather.’ Calder’s lids drifted open a slit, that curl to his lip he’d had since a boy. ‘Curnden Craw. You still alive, you old shit?’
‘Bit of a cough, as it goes.’ He hawked up and spat phlegm onto the old stone between Calder’s fancy foot- leather. ‘Reckon I’ll survive, though. Who made the mistake o’ letting you crawl back from exile?’
Calder swung his legs off the slab. ‘None other than the great Protector himself. Guess he couldn’t beat the Union without my mighty sword-arm.’
‘What’s his plan? Cut it off and throw it at ’em?’
Calder spread his arms out wide. ‘How would I hold you then?’ And they folded each other tight. ‘Good to see you, you stupid old fool.’
‘Likewise, you lying little fuck.’
Shivers frowned from the shadows all the while. ‘You two seem tight,’ he muttered.
‘Why, I practically raised this little bastard!’ Craw scrubbed Calder’s hair with his knuckles. ‘Fed him milk from a squeezed cloth, I did.’
‘Closest thing I ever had to a mother,’ said Calder.
Shivers nodded slowly. ‘Explains a lot.’
‘We should talk.’ Calder gave Craw’s arm a squeeze. ‘I miss our talks.’
‘And me.’ Craw took a careful step back as a horse reared nearby, knocked its cart sideways and sent a tangle of spears clattering to the ground. ‘Almost as much as I miss a decent bed. Today might not be the day, though.’
‘Maybe not. I hear there’s some sort of battle about to happen?’ Calder backed off, throwing up his hands. ‘It’s going to kill my whole afternoon!’
He passed a cage as he went, a couple of filthy Northmen squatting naked inside, one sticking an arm out through the bars in hopes of water, or mercy, or just so some part of him could be free. Deserters would’ve been hanged already which made these thieves or murderers. Waiting on Black Dow’s pleasure, which was more’n likely going to be to hang ’em anyway, and probably burn ’em into the bargain. Strange, to lock men up for thieving when the whole army lived on robbery. To dangle men for murder when they were all at the business of killing. What makes a crime in a time when men take what they please from who they please?
‘Dow wants you.’ Splitfoot stood frowning in the ruin’s archway. He’d always been a dour bastard but he looked ’specially put upon today. ‘In there.’
‘You want my sword?’ Craw was already sliding it out.
‘No need.’
‘No? When did Black Dow start trusting people?’
‘Not people. Just you.’
Craw wasn’t sure if that was a good sign. ‘All right, then.’
Shivers made to follow but Splitfoot held him back with one hand. ‘Dow didn’t ask for you.’
Craw caught Shivers’ narrowed eye for a moment, and shrugged, and ducked through the ivy-choked archway, feeling like he was sticking his head in a wolf’s mouth and wondering when he’d hear the teeth snap. Down a passage hung with cobweb, echoing with dripping water. Into a wide stretch of brambly dirt, broken pillars scattered around its edge, some still holding up a crumbling vault, but the roof long gone and the clouds above starting to show some bright blue between. Dow sat in Skarling’s Chair at the far end of the ruined hall, toying with the pommel of his sword. Caul Reachey sat near him, scratching at his white stubble.
‘When I give the word,’ Dow was saying, ‘you’ll lead off alone. Move on Osrung with everything you’ve got. They’re weak there.’
‘How d’you know that?’
Dow winked. ‘I’ve got my ways. They’ve too many men and not enough road, and they rushed to get here so they’re stretched out thin. Just some horsemen in the town, and a few o’ the Dogman’s lads. Might’ve got some foot up there by the time we go, but not enough to stop you if you take a proper swing at it.’
‘Oh, I’ll swing at it,’ said Reachey. ‘Don’t worry on that score.’
‘I’m not. That’s why you’re leading off. I want your lads to carry my standard, nice and clear up at the front. And Golden’s, and Ironhead’s, and yours. Where everyone can see.’
‘Make ’em think it’s our big effort.’
‘Any luck they’ll pull some men off from the Heroes, leave the stones weaker held. Once they’re in the open fields between hill and town, I’ll let slip Golden’s boys and he’ll tear their arses out. Meantime me, and Ironhead, and Tenways’ll make the proper effort on the Heroes.’
‘How d’you plan to work it?’
Dow flashed that hungry grin of his. ‘Run up that hill and kill everything living.’
‘They’ll have had time to get set, and that’s some tough ground to charge. It’s where they’ll be strongest. We could go around…’
‘Strongest here.’ Dow dug his sword into the ground in front of Skarling’s Chair. ‘Weakest here.’ And he tapped at his chest with a finger. ‘We’ve been going around the sides for months, they won’t be expecting us front on. We break ’em at the Heroes, we break ’em here,’ and he thumped his chest again, ‘and the rest all crumbles. Then Golden can follow up, chase ’em right across the fords if need be. All the way to Adwein. Scale should be ready on the right by then, can take the Old Bridge. With you in Osrung in weight, when the rest o’ the Union turn up tomorrow all the best ground’ll be ours.’
Reachey slowly stood. ‘Right y’are, Chief. We’ll make it a red day. A day for the songs.’
‘Shit on the songs,’ said Dow, standing himself. ‘I’ll take just victory.’
They clasped hands a moment, then Reachey moved for the entrance, saw Craw and gave a big gap-toothed smile.
‘Old Caul Reachey.’ And Craw held out his hand.
‘Curnden Craw, as I live and breathe.’ Reachey folded it in one of his then slapped the other down on top. ‘Ain’t enough of us good men left.’
‘Those are the times.’
‘How’s the knee?’
‘You know. It is how it is.’
‘Mine too. Yon Cumber?’
‘Always with a joke ready. How’s Flood getting on?’
Reachey grinned. ‘Got him looking after some new recruits. Right shower o’ piss-water, in the main.’
‘Maybe they’ll shape up.’
‘They better had, and fast. I hear we got a battle coming.’ Reachey clapped him on the arm as he passed. ‘Be waiting for your order, Chief!’ And he left Craw and Black Dow watching each other over a few strides of rubble-strewn, weed-sprouting, nettle-waving old mud. Birds twittered, leaves rustled, the hint of distant metal serving notice there was bloody business due.
‘Chief.’ Craw licked his lips, no idea how this was going to go.
Dow took a long breath in and screamed at the top of his voice. ‘Didn’t I tell you to hold on to that
Craw went cold as the echoes rang from the crumbling walls. Looked like it might not go well at all. He
