The Heroes

Calder snorted. ‘I wouldn’t get used to that feeling.’

‘Don’t worry, it’s gone already.’

‘Then I’ll spend every moment I’ve got left struggling to bring it back for you.’ Calder hopped up onto the wall, waving his arms for balance as a loose stone rocked under his feet, then stood, peering off across the black fields towards the Old Bridge. The torches of the Union pickets formed a dotted line, others moving about as soldiers poured across the river. Making ready to come flooding across the fields tomorrow morning, and over their tumbledown little wall, and murder the lot of them, and leave Bethod’s memory a joke regardless.

Calder squinted, shading his eyes from the light of his own fires. It looked as if they’d stuck two tall flags right up at the front. He could see them shifting in the wind, gold thread faintly glinting. It seemed strange that they were so easy to see, until he realised they were lit up on purpose. Some sort of display. Some show of strength, maybe.

‘By the dead,’ he muttered, and snorted with laughter. His father used to tell him it’s easy to see the enemy one of two ways. As some implacable, terrifying, unstoppable force that can only be feared and never understood. Or some block of wood that doesn’t think, doesn’t move, a dumb target to shoot your plans at. But the enemy is neither one. Imagine he’s you, that he’s no more and no less of a fool, or a coward, or a hero than you are. If you can imagine that, you won’t go too far wrong. The enemy is just a set of men. That’s the realisation that makes war easy. And the one that makes it hard.

The chances were high that General Mitterick and the rest were just as big a set of idiots as Calder was himself. Which meant they were big ones. ‘Have you seen those bloody flags?’ he called down.

Pale-as-Snow shrugged. ‘It’s the Union.’

‘Where’s White-Eye?’

‘Touring the fires, trying to keep mens’ spirits up.’

‘Not buoyed by having me in charge, then?’

Pale-as-Snow shrugged again. ‘They don’t all know you like I do. Probably Hansul’s busy singing the song of how you punched Brodd Tenways in the face. That’ll do their love for you no harm.’

Maybe not, but punching men on his own side wasn’t going to be enough. Calder’s men were beaten and demoralised. They’d lost a leader they loved and gained one nobody did. If he did any more nothing, the chances were high they’d fall apart in battle tomorrow morning, if they were even there when the sun rose.

Scale had said it. This is the North. Sometimes you have to fight.

He pressed his tongue into his teeth, the glimmers of an idea starting to take shape from the darkness. ‘Mitterick, is it, across the way?’

‘The Union Chief? Aye, Mitterick, I think.’

‘Sharp, Dow told me, but reckless.’

‘He was reckless enough today.’

‘Worked for him, in the end. Men tend to stick to what works. He loves horses, I heard.’

‘What? Loves ’em?’ Pale-as-Snow mimed a grabbing action and gave a couple of thrusts of his hips.

‘Maybe that too. But I think fighting on them was more the point.’

‘That’s good ground for horses.’ Pale-as-Snow nodded at the sweep of dark crops to the south. ‘Nice and flat. Maybe he thinks he’ll ride all over us tomorrow.’

‘Maybe he will.’ Calder pursed his lips, thinking about it. Thinking about the order crumpled in his shirt pocket. My men and I are giving our all. ‘Reckless. Arrogant. Vain.’ Roughly what men said about Calder, as it went. Which maybe gave him a little insight into his opponent. His eyes shifted back to those idiot flags, thrust out front, lit up like a dance on midsummer eve. His mouth found that familiar smirk, and stayed there. ‘I want you to get your best men together. No more than a few score. Enough to keep together and work quickly at night.’

‘What for?’

‘We’re not going to beat the Union moping back here.’ He kicked the bit of loose stone from the top of the wall. ‘And I don’t think some farmer’s boundary mark is going to keep them out either, do you?’

Pale-as-Snow showed his teeth. ‘Now you’re reminding me of your father again. What about the rest of the lads?’

Calder hopped down from the wall. ‘Get White-Eye to round them up. They’ve got some digging to do.’

DAY THREE

I’m not sure how much violence and butchery the readers will stand.

Robert E. Howard

The Standard Issue

The light came and went as the clouds tore across the sky, showing a glimpse of the big full moon then hiding it away, like a clever whore might show a glimpse of tit once in a while, just to keep the punters eager. By the dead, Calder wished he was with a clever whore now, rather than crouching in the middle of a damp barley- field, peering through the thrashing stalks in the vain hope of seeing a whole pile of night-dark nothing. It was a sad fact, or perhaps a happy one, that he was a man better suited to brothels than battlefields.

Pale-as-Snow was rather the reverse. The only part of him that had moved in an hour or more was his jaw, slowly shifting as he ground a lump of chagga down to mush. His flinty calm only made Calder more jumpy. Everything did. The scraping of shovels dug at his nerves behind them, sounding just a few strides distant one moment then swallowed up by the wind the next. The same wind that was whipping Calder’s hair in his face, blasting his eyes with grit and cutting through his clothes to the bone.

‘Shit on this wind,’ he muttered.

‘Wind’s a good thing,’ grunted Pale-as-Snow. ‘Masks the sound. And if you’re chill, brought up to the North, think how they feel over there, used to sunnier climes. All in our favour.’ Good points, maybe, and Calder was annoyed he hadn’t thought of them, but they didn’t make him feel any warmer. He clutched his cloak tight at his chest, other hand wedged into his armpit, and pressed one eye shut.

‘I expected war to be terrifying but I never thought it’d be so bloody boring.’

‘Patience.’ Pale-as-Snow turned his head, softly spat and licked the juice from his bottom lip. ‘Patience is as fearsome a weapon as rage. More so, in fact, ’cause fewer men have it.’

‘Chief.’ Calder spun about, fumbling for his sword hilt. A man had slithered from the barley beside them, mud smeared on his face, eyes standing out strangely white in the midst of it. One of theirs. Calder wondered if he should’ve smeared some mud on his face too. It made a man look like he knew his business. He waited for Pale- as-Snow to answer for a while. Then he realised he was the Chief.

‘Oh, right.’ Letting go of his sword and pretending he hadn’t been surprised at all. ‘What?’

‘We’re in the trenches,’ whispered the newcomer. ‘Sent a few Union boys back to the mud.’

‘They seem ready?’ asked Pale-as-Snow, who hadn’t so much as looked round.

‘Shit, no.’ The man’s grin was a pale curve in his blacked-out face. ‘Most of ’em were sleeping.’

‘Best time to kill a man.’ Though Calder had to wonder whether the dead would agree. The old warrior held out one hand. ‘Shall we?’

‘We shall.’ Calder winced as he set off crawling through the barley. It was far sharper, rougher, more painful stuff to sneak through than you could ever have expected. It didn’t take long for his hands to chafe raw, and it