come back from the wars,’ she said.
‘Coming back’s the only good thing I could see.’ He leaned down and set a log on the block, spat on one palm and took up the wood axe. The haft felt good in his hands. Familiar. It fitted ’em better than the sword ever had, that was sure. He swung it down and two neat halves went tumbling. He was no hero, and never would be.
He was made to chop logs, not to fight.
And that made him lucky. Luckier’n Reft, or Stodder, or Brait. Luckier’n Drofd or Whirrun of Bligh. Luckier’n Black Dow, even. He worked the axe clear of the block and stood back. They don’t sing many songs about log- splitters, maybe, but the lambs were bleating, up on the fells out of sight, and that sounded like music. Sounded a sweeter song to him then than all the hero’s lays he knew.
He closed his eyes and breathed in the smell of grass and woodsmoke. Then he opened ’em, and looked across the valley. Skin all tingling with the peace of that moment. Couldn’t believe he used to hate this place.
Didn’t seem so bad, now. Didn’t seem so bad at all.
Everyone Serves
‘So you’re standing with me?’ asked Calder, breezy as a spring morning.
‘If there’s still room.’
‘Loyal as Rudd Threetrees, eh?’
Ironhead shrugged. ‘I won’t take you for a fool and say yes. But I know where my best interest lies and it’s at your heels. I’d also point out loyalty’s a dangerous foundation. Tends to wash away in a storm. Self-interest stands in any weather.’
Calder had to nod at that. ‘A sound principle.’ He glanced up at Foss Deep, lately returned to his service following the end of hostilities and an apt display of the power of self-interest in the flesh. Despite his stated distaste for battles he’d somehow acquired, gleaming beneath his shabby coat, a splendid Union breastplate engraved with a golden sun. ‘A man should have some, eh, Deep?’
‘Some what?’
‘Principles.’
‘Oh, I’m a big, big, big believer in ’em. My brother too.’
Shallow took a quick break from furiously picking his fingernails with the point of his knife. ‘I like ’em with milk.’
A slightly uncomfortable silence. Then Calder turned back to Ironhead. ‘Last time we spoke you told me you’d stick with Dow. Then you pissed on my boots.’ He lifted one up, even more battered, gouged and stained from the events of the past few days than Calder was himself. ‘Best bloody boots in the North a week ago. Styrian leather. Now look.’
‘I’ll be more’n happy to buy you a new pair.’
Calder winced at his aching ribs as he stood. ‘Make it two.’
‘Whatever you say. Maybe I’ll get a pair myself and all.’
‘You sure something in steel wouldn’t be more your style?’
Ironhead shrugged. ‘No call for steel boots in peacetime. Anything else?’
‘Just keep your men handy, for now. We need to put a good show on ’til the Union get bored of waiting and slink off. Shouldn’t be long.’
‘Right y’are.’
Calder took a couple of steps away, then turned back. ‘Get a gift for my wife, too. Something beautiful, since my child’s due soon.’
‘Chief.’
‘And don’t feel too bad about it. Everyone serves someone.’
‘Very true.’ Ironhead didn’t so much as twitch. A little disappointing, in fact – Calder had hoped to watch him sweat. But there’d be time for that later, once the Union were gone. There’d be time for all kinds of things. So he gave a lordly nod and smirked off, his two shadows trailing after.
He had Reachey on-side, and Pale-as-Snow. He’d had a little word with Wonderful, and she’d had the same little word with Dow’s Carls, and their loyalty had washed with the rainwater, all right. Most of Tenways’ men had drifted off, and White-Eye Hansul had made his own appeal to self-interest and argued the rest around. Ironhead and Golden still hated each other too much to pose a threat and Stranger-Come-Knocking, for reasons beyond Calder’s ken, was treating him like an old and honoured friend.
Laughing stock to king of the world in the swing of a sword. Luck. Some men have it, some don’t.
‘Time to plumb the depth of Glama Golden’s loyalty,’ said Calder happily. ‘Or his self-interest, anyway.’
They walked down the hillside in the gathering darkness, stars starting to peep out from the inky skies, Calder smirking at the thought of how he’d make Golden squirm. How he’d have that puffed-up bastard tripping over his own tongue trying to ingratiate himself. How much he’d enjoy twisting the screw. They reached a fork in the path and Deep strolled off to the left, around the foot of the Heroes.
‘Golden’s camp is on the right,’ grunted Calder.
‘True,’ said Deep, still walking. ‘You’ve an unchallenged grasp on your rights and lefts, which puts you a firm rung above my brother on the ladder of learning.’
‘They look the bloody same,’ snapped Shallow, and Calder felt something prick at his back. A cold and surprising something, not quite painful but certainly not pleasant. It took him a moment to realise what it was, but
