‘I heard that!’ called Whirrun.
‘Think on this,’ said Craw, slapping Yon’s chest with the back of his hand. ‘You get up that hill you’ll be owed another gild. Two at once. Ain’t going to be time to spend it now anyway, is there? We got a battle to fight.’
That much no one could argue with. Men were moving through the woods now, all geared-up and ready. Rustling and rattling, whispering and clattering, forming a kneeling line stretching off both ways between the tree trunks. Sunlight came ragged through the branches, patching on frowning faces, glinting on helmet and drawn sword.
‘When were we last in a proper battle, anyway?’ muttered Wonderful.
‘There was that skirmish down near Ollensand,’ said Craw.
Yon spat. ‘Don’t hardly call that proper.’
‘Up in the High Places,’ said Scorry, finishing the cutting and brushing the hair from Agrick’s shoulders. ‘Trying to prise Ninefingers out of that bloody crack of a valley.’
‘Seven years ago, was it? Eight?’ Craw shuddered at the memory of that nightmare, scores of fighters crowded into a gap in the rock so tight no one could hardly breathe, so tight no one could swing, just prick at each other, knee at each other, bite at each other. Never thought he’d come through that little slice of horror alive. Why the hell would a man choose to risk it again?
He looked at that shallow bowl of crop-filled country between the woods and the Heroes. Looked a bloody long way for an old man with more’n one dodgy leg to run. Glorious charges came up a lot in the songs, but there was one advantage to the defensive no one could deny — the enemy come to you. He shifted from one leg to the other, trying to find the best spot for his knee, and his ankle, and his hip, but a variety of agony was the best he could manage. He snorted to himself. True of life in general, that was.
He looked around to check his dozen were all ready. Got quite the shock to see Black Dow himself down on one knee in the ferns not ten strides distant, axe in one hand, sword in the other, Splitfoot and Shivers and his closest Carls at his back. He’d put aside his furs and finery and looked about like any other man in the line. Except for his fierce grin, like he was looking forward to this as much as Craw was wondering if there was a way free of it.
‘Nobody get killed, aye?’ He looked around ’em all as he pressed Scorry’s hand. They all shook their heads, gave frowns or nervous grins, said ‘no’, or ‘aye’, or ‘not me’. All except Brack, sat staring out towards the trees like he was on his own, sweat beading his big, pale face.
‘Don’t get killed, eh, Brack?’
The hillman looked at Craw as if he’d only just realised he was there. ‘What?’
‘You all right?’
‘Aye.’ Taking Craw’s hand and giving it a clammy press. ‘’Course.’
‘That leg good to run on?’
‘I’ve had more pain taking a shit.’
Craw raised his brows. ‘Well, a good shit can be quite punishing, can’t it?’
‘Chief.’ Drofd nodded over towards the light beyond the trees and Craw hunched a little lower. There were men moving out there. Mounted men, though only their heads and shoulders showed from where Craw was crouching.
‘Union scouts,’ whispered Wonderful in his ear. Dogman’s lads, maybe, worked their way through the fields and the farmhouses and were casting out towards the treeline. The forest the whole length of the valley was crawling with armed and armoured Northmen. It was a wonder they weren’t seen yet.
Dow knew it, ’course. He coolly waved his axe over to the east, like he was asking for some beer to be brought over. ‘Best tell Reachey to go, ’fore they spoil our surprise.’ The word went out, that same gesture of Dow’s arm copied down the line in a wave.
‘Here we bloody go again, then,’ grunted Craw between chewing on his nails.
‘Here we go,’ Wonderful forced through tight lips, sword drawn in her hand.
‘I’m too old for this shit.’
‘Yep.’
‘Should’ve married Colwen.’
‘Aye.’
‘High time I retired.’
‘True.’
‘Could you stop fucking agreeing with me?’
‘Ain’t that the point of a Second? Support the Chief, no matter what! So I agree. You’re too old and you should’ve married Colwen and retired.’
Craw sighed as he offered his hand. ‘My thanks for your support.’
She gave it a squeeze. ‘Always.’
The deep, low blast of Reachey’s horn throbbed out from the east. Seemed to make the earth buzz, tickle at the roots of Craw’s hair. More horns, then came the feet, like distant thunder mixed with metal. He strained forwards, peering between the black tree trunks, trying to get a glimpse of Reachey’s men. Could hardly see more than a few of Osrung’s roofs across the sun-drenched fields. Then the war cries started, floating out over the valley, echoing through the trees like ghosts. Craw felt his skin tingling, part fear at what was coming and part wanting to spring up and add his own voice to the clamour.
‘Soon enough,’ he whispered, licking his lips as he stood, hardly noticing the pain in his leg no more.
‘I’d say so.’ Whirrun came up beside him, Father of Swords drawn and held under the crosspiece, his other hand pointing towards the Heroes. ‘Do you see that, Craw?’ Looked like there might be men moving at the top of the green slopes. Gathering around a standard, maybe. ‘They’re coming down. Going to be a happy meeting with Golden’s lads out in those fields, ain’t it?’ He gave his soft, high chuckle. ‘A happy meeting.’
Craw slowly shook his head. ‘Ain’t you worried at all?’
‘Why? Didn’t I say? Shoglig told me the time and place of my death, and…’
‘It’s not here and it’s not now, aye, only about ten thousand bloody times.’ Craw leaned in to whisper. ‘Did she tell you whether you’d get both your legs cut off here, though?’
‘No, that she didn’t,’ Whirrun had to admit. ‘But what difference would that make to my life, will you tell me? You can still sit around a fire and talk shit with no legs.’
‘Maybe they’ll cut your arms off too.’
‘True. If that happens … I’ll have to at least consider retirement. You’re a good man, Curnden Craw.’ And Whirrun poked him in the ribs. ‘Maybe I’ll pass the Father of Swords on to you, if you’re still breathing when I cross to the distant shore.’
Craw snorted. ‘I ain’t carrying that bastard thing around.’
‘You think I
‘What?’
‘His innards. It has to go to someone, Craw. Ain’t you the one always saying there’s a right way to do things? Has to go to someone.’
They stood in silence for a moment longer, peering into the brightness beyond the trees, the wind stirring the leaves and making them rustle, shaking a few dry bits of green down onto the spears, and helmets, and shoulders of all those men kneeling in the brush. Birds chirping in the branches, tweet bloody tweet, and even quieter the distant screaming of Reachey’s charge.
Men were moving on the eastern flank of the Heroes. Union men, coming down. Craw rubbed his sweaty palms together, and drew his sword. ‘Whirrun.’
‘Aye?’
‘You ever wonder if Shoglig might’ve been wrong?’
‘Every bloody fight I get into.’
Devoutly to be Wished
