Neither had Calder. But he found he was glad they had. ‘End?’ He smirked across at his brother. ‘This is the beginning.’
Retired
The house wasn’t by the water. It didn’t have a porch. It did have a bench outside with a view of the valley, but when he sat on it of an evening with his pipe he didn’t tend to smile, just thought of all the men he’d buried. It leaked somewhat around the western eaves when the rain came down, which it had in quite some measure lately. It had just the one room, and a shelf up a ladder for sleeping on, and when it came to the great divide between sheds and houses, was only just on the right side of the issue. But it was a house, still, with good oak bones and a good stone chimney. And it was his. Dreams don’t just spring up by themselves, they need tending to, and you’ve got to plant that first seed somewhere. Or so Craw told himself.
‘Shit!’ Hammer and nail clattered to the boards and he was off around the room, spitting and cursing and shaking his hand about.
Working wood was a tough way to earn a living. He might not have been chewing his nails so much, but he’d taken to hammering the bastards into his fingers instead. The sad fact was, now the wounds all over Craw’s hands had forced him to face it, he wasn’t much of a carpenter. In his dreams of retirement he’d always seen himself crafting things of beauty. Probably while light streamed in through coloured windows and sawdust went up in artful puffs. Gables carved with gilded dragon heads, so lifelike they’d be the wonder of the North, folk flocking from miles around to get a look. But it turned out wood was just as full of split, and warp, and splinters as people were.
‘Bloody hell.’ Rubbing the life back into his thumb, nail already black from where he caught it yesterday.
They smiled at him in the village, brought him odd jobs, but he reckoned more’n one of the farmers was a good stretch better with a hammer than he was. Certainly they’d got that new barn up without calling on his skills and he had to admit it was likely a finer building for it. He’d started to think they wanted him in the valley more for his sword than his saw. While the war was on, the North’s ready supply of scum had the Southerners to kill and rob. Now they just had their own kind, and were taking every chance at it. A Named Man to hand was no bad thing. Those were the times. Those were still the times, and maybe they always would be.
He squatted beside the stricken chair, latest casualty in his war against furniture. He’d split the joint he’d spent the last hour chiselling out and now the new leg stuck at an angle, an ugly gouge where he’d been hammering. Served him right for working as the light was going, but if he didn’t get this done tonight he’d—
‘Craw!’
His head jerked up. A man’s voice, deep and rough.
‘You in there, Craw?’
His skin went cold all over. Might be he’d played the straight edge most of his life, but you don’t walk free of the black business without some scores however you play it.
He sprang up, or as close to springing as he could get these days, snatched his sword from the bracket above the door, fumbled it and nearly dropped it on his head, hissing more curses. If it was someone come to kill him it didn’t seem likely they’d have given him a warning by calling his name. Not unless they were idiots. Idiots can be just as vengeful as anyone else, though, if not more so.
The shutters of the back window were open. He could slip out and off into the wood. But if they were serious they’d have thought of that, and with his knees he’d be outrunning no one. Better to come out the front way and look ’em in the eye. The way he would’ve done when he was young. He sidled up, swallowing as he drew his sword. Turned the knob, wedged the blade into the gap and gently levered the door open while he peered around the frame.
He’d go out the front way, but he wasn’t painting a target on his shirt.
He counted eight at a glance, spread out in a crescent on the damp patch of dirt in front of his house. A couple had torches, light catching mail and helm and spear’s tip and making ’em twinkle in the damp twilight. Carls, and battle-toughened by their looks, though there weren’t many men left in the North you couldn’t say that about. They all had plenty of weapons, but no blades drawn that he could see. That gave him some measure of comfort.
‘That you, Craw?’ He got a big measure more when he saw who was in charge, standing closest to the house with palms up.
‘That it is.’ Craw let his sword point drop and poked his head out a bit further. ‘Here’s a surprise.’
‘Pleasant one, I hope.’
‘I guess you’ll tell me. What’re you after, Hardbread?’
‘Can I come in?’
Craw sniffed. ‘You can. Your crew might have to enjoy the night air for now.’
‘They’re used to it.’ And Hardbread ambled up to the house alone. He looked prosperous. Beard trimmed back. New mail. Silver on the hilt of his sword. He climbed the steps and ducked past Craw, strolled to the centre of the one room, which didn’t take long to get to, and cast an appraising eye around. Took in Craw’s pallet on the shelf, his workbench and his tools, the half-finished chair, the broken wood and the shavings scattering the boards. ‘This what retirement looks like?’ he asked.
‘No, I’ve a fucking palace out back. Why you here?’
Hardbread took a breath. ‘Because mighty Scale Ironhand, King of the Northmen, has gone to war with Glama Golden.’
Craw snorted. ‘Black Calder has, you mean. Why?’
‘Golden killed Caul Reachey.’
‘Reachey’s dead?’
‘Poisoned. And Golden did the deed.’
Craw narrowed his eyes. ‘That a fact?’
