Shallow gave him a sour look, but he dragged on the horse’s bridle, put his weight across its neck and got it down, then gave it a quick stab in the neck, leaning on it while it poured blood into the muck.
‘Shit on a shitty shit.’ Shallow shook his head. ‘There’s no money in killing horses. We’re taking risksies enoughsies coming over here in the first…’
‘Stop it.’
‘Stop what?’ As he dragged a fallen tree branch over the horse’s corpse.
Deep looked up at him. ‘Talking like a child, what do you think? It’s odd, is what it is. It’s like your head’s trapped at four years old.’
‘My parts of speech upset you?’ Chopping another branch free with his hatchet.
‘They do, as it goes, yes.’
Shallow got the horse hidden to his satisfaction. ‘Guess I’ll have to stopsy wopsy, then.’
Deep gave a long sigh through gritted teeth. One day he’d kill Shallow, or the other way around, he’d known it ever since he was ten years old. He unfolded the paper and held it up to the light.
‘What’s the matter of it?’ asked Shallow, peering over his shoulder.
Deep turned slowly to look at him. He wouldn’t have been surprised if today turned out to be the day. ‘What? Did I learn to read Southerner in my sleep and not realise? How in the land of the dead should I know what the bloody matter of it is?’
Shallow shrugged. ‘Fair point. It has the look of import, though.’
‘It do indeed have every appearance of significance.’
‘So?’
‘I guess it becomes a question of who we know might find ’emselves tempted to fork out for it.’
They looked at each other and said it together. ‘Calder.’
This time White-Eye Hansul rode up fast, and with no hint of a smile. His shield had a broken arrow shaft in it and there was a cut across his forehead. He looked like a man who’d been in action. Calder felt sick just seeing him.
‘Scale wants you to bring your men up.’ There was no laughter in his voice now. ‘The Southerners are coming across the bridge again and this time they’ve come hard. He can’t hold out much longer.’
‘All right.’ Calder had known the moment would come, but that didn’t make it any sweeter. ‘Get them ready.’
‘Aye.’ And Pale-as-Snow strode off barking orders.
Calder reached for his sword hilt and made a show of loosening it as he watched his brother’s men — his men — stand up from behind Clail’s Wall and prepare to join the battle. Time to write the first verse in the song of bold Prince Calder. And hope it wasn’t the last.
‘Your prince-li-ness!’
Calder looked round. ‘Foss Deep. You always come upon me at my brightest moments.’
‘I can smell desperation.’ Deep was dirty, and not just from a moral standpoint. Even dirtier than usual, as if he’d dived into a bog, which Calder didn’t doubt he would have if he’d thought there was a coin at the bottom.
‘What is it? I’ve a battle to die gloriously in.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t want to stop ’em strumming ballads in your honour.’
‘They already sing songs about him,’ said Shallow.
Deep grinned. ‘Not in his honour, though. We found something might be of interest.’
‘Look!’ Shallow pointed off to the south, white teeth smiling in his mud-spattered face. ‘There’s a rainbow!’
There was, in fact, a faint one, curving down towards the distant barley as the rain slackened and the sun showed itself again, but Calder was in no mood to appreciate it. ‘Did you just want to draw my attention to the endless beauty all around us, or is there something more to the point?’
Deep held out a piece of folded paper, creased and dirty. Calder reached for it and he whipped it theatrically away. ‘For a price.’
‘The price for paper isn’t high.’
‘’Course not,’ said Deep. ‘It’s what’s written on that paper gives it value.’
‘And what’s written on it?’
The brothers looked at each other. ‘Something. We found it on some Union lad.’
‘I’ve no time for this. Chances are high it’s just some letter from Mother.’
‘Letter?’ asked Shallow.
Calder snapped his fingers. ‘Give it me and I’ll pay you what it’s worth. Or you can peddle your rainbows elsewhere.’
The brothers exchanged glances again. Shallow shrugged. Deep slapped the paper into Calder’s hand. It didn’t appear to be worth much at a glance, spotted with mud and what looked suspiciously like blood. Knowing these two, definitely blood. There was neat writing inside.
Then what might have been a name but it was right in the crease, the paper was all scuffed and Calder couldn’t make sense of it. It looked like an order, but he’d never heard of any Vallimir. An attack on the Old Bridge. That was hardly news. He was about to throw it away when he caught the second block of writing in a wilder, slanting hand.
Mitterick. Dow had mentioned that name. One of the Union’s generals. Something about him being sharp and reckless. My men and I are giving our all? He sounded a pompous idiot. Ordering an attack across a stream, though. On the flank. Calder frowned. Not the river. And not the bridge. He blinked around at the terrain, thinking about it. Wondering where soldiers could be for that order to make sense.
‘By the dead,’ he whispered. There were Union men in the woods over to the west, ready to cross the beck and take them in their flank at any moment. There had to be!
‘Worth something, then?’ asked Shallow, smirking.
Calder hardly heard him. He pushed past the two killers and hurried up the rise to the west, shoving between the grim-faced men leaning against Clail’s Wall so he could get a view across the stream.
‘What is it?’ asked White-Eye, bringing his horse up on the other side of the drystone.
Calder snapped open the battered eyeglass his father used to use and peered westwards, up that slope covered with old stumps, past the woodcutters’ sheds and towards the shadowy trees beyond. Were they crawling with Union soldiers, ready to charge across the shallow water as soon as they saw him move? There was no sign of men there. Not even a glint of steel among the trees. Could it be a trick?
Should he keep his promise, charge to his brother’s aid and risk offering the whole army’s bare arse to the enemy? Or stay behind the wall and leave Scale the one with his backside in the breeze? That was the safe thing, wasn’t it? Hold the line. Prevent disaster. Or was he only telling himself what he wanted to hear? Was he relieved to have found a way to avoid fighting? A way to get rid of his idiot older brother? Liar, liar, he didn’t even know when he was telling himself the truth any more.
He desperately wanted someone to tell him what to do. He wished Seff was with him, she always had bold ideas. She was brave. Calder wasn’t made for riding to the rescue. Hanging back was more his style. Saving his own skin. Killing prisoners. Not doing it himself, of course, but ordering it done. Poking other men’s wives while they were doing the fighting, maybe, if he was really feeling adventurous. But this was a long way outside his expertise. What the hell should he do?
