The Heroes

‘Killer’s honour, eh? Swear it, did you, on Skarling’s cock, or whatever?’

‘Didn’t have to. I gave my word.’

‘To Black Dow? He tried to have me killed a few nights back, and I’m supposed to sit on my hands waiting for him to do it again? The man’s more treacherous than winter!’

‘Don’t matter. I said yes.’ And by the dead how he wished he hadn’t now.

Calder nodded, little smile at the corner of his mouth. ‘Oh, aye. Gave your word. And good old Craw’s a straight edge, right? No matter who gets cut.’

‘I have to tell him.’

‘But tomorrow.’ Calder backed away, still with that smirk on his face. ‘You’ll give me a start.’ One foot after another, down the hillside. ‘You won’t tell him. I know you, Craw. Raised me from a babe, didn’t you? You’ve got more bones than that. You’re not Black Dow’s dog. Not you.’

‘It ain’t a question of bones, nor dogs neither. I gave my word, and I’ll tell him tomorrow.’

‘No, you won’t.’

‘Yes, I will.’

‘No.’ And Calder’s smirk was gone into the darkness. ‘You won’t.’

Craw stood there for a moment, in the wind, frowning at nothing. Then he gritted his teeth, and pushed his fingers into his hair, bent over and gave a strangled roar of frustration. He hadn’t felt this hollow since Wast Never sold him out and tried to kill him after eight years a friend. Would’ve done it too if it hadn’t been for Whirrun. Wasn’t clear who’d get him out of this particular scrape. Wasn’t clear how anyone could. This time it was him doing the betraying. He’d be doing it to someone whatever he did.

Always do the right thing sounds an easy rule to stick to. But when’s the right thing the wrong thing? That’s the question.

The King’s Last Hero

Your August Majesty,

Darkness has finally covered the battlefield. Great gains were made today. Great gains at great cost. I deeply regret to inform you that Lord Governor Meed was killed, fighting with the highest personal courage for your Majesty’s cause alongside many of his staff.

There was bitter combat from dawn to dusk in the town of Osrung. The fence was carried in the morning and the Northmen driven across the river, but they launched a savage counterattack and retook the northern half of the town. Now the water separates the two sides once again.

On the western wing, General Mitterick had better fortune. Twice the Northmen resisted his assaults on the Old Bridge, but on the third attempt they were finally broken and fled to a low wall some distance away over open fields. Mitterick is moving his cavalry across the river, ready for an attack at first light tomorrow. From my tent I can see the standards of your Majesty’s Second and Third Regiments, defiantly displayed on ground held by the Northmen only a few hours ago.

General Jalenhorm, meanwhile, has reorganised his division, augmented by reserves from the levy regiments, and is prepared for an attack upon the Heroes in overwhelming force. I mean to stay close to him tomorrow, witness his success at first hand, and inform your Majesty of Black Dow’s defeat as soon as the stones are recaptured.

I remain your Majesty’s most faithful and unworthy servant,

Bremer dan Gorst, Royal Observer of the Northern War

Gorst held the letter out to Rurgen, clenching his teeth as pain flashed through his shoulder. Everything was hurting. His ribs were even worse than yesterday. His armpit was one great itching graze where the edge of his breastplate had been ground into it. For some reason there was a cut between his shoulder blades just where it was hardest to reach. Though no doubt I deserve far worse, and probably will get it before we’re done with this worthless valley.

‘Can Younger take this?’ he grunted.

Younger!’ called Rurgen.

‘What?’ from outside.

‘Letter!’

The younger man ducked his head through the tent flap, stretching for it. He winced, had to come a step closer, and Gorst saw that the right side of his face was covered by a large bandage, soaked through with a long brown mark of dried blood.

Gorst stared at him. ‘What happened?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Huh,’ grunted Rurgen. ‘Tell him.’

Younger frowned at his colleague. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Felnigg happened,’ said Rurgen. ‘Since you ask.’

Gorst was out of his seat, pains forgotten. ‘Colonel Felnigg? Kroy’s chief of staff?’

‘I got in his way. That’s all. That’s the end of it.’

‘Whipped him,’ said Rurgen.

‘Whipped … you?’ whispered Gorst. He stood staring for a moment. Then he snatched up his long steel,