while, but I found some— What?’
‘Weapons!’ bellowed Brack at him.
‘Hardbread’s back!’ added Athroc.
‘Shit!’ Yon let his sticks fall in a tangle, near tripped over them as he ran for his gear.
It was a bastard of a call and Craw couldn’t dither on it. But that’s what it is to be Chief. If he’d wanted easy choices he could’ve stayed a carpenter, where you might on occasion have to toss out a botched joint but rarely risk a friend’s life.
He’d stuck all his days to the notion there’s a right way to do things, even as it seemed to be going out of fashion. You pick your Chief, you pick your side, you pick your crew and then you stand by ’em, whatever the wind blows up. He’d stood by Threetrees ’til he lost to the Bloody-Nine. Stood by Bethod ’til the end. Now he stood with Black Dow and, whatever the rights and wrongs of it, Black Dow said hold this hill. They were fighters by trade. Time comes a fighter has to toss the runes and fight. It was the right thing to do.
‘The right thing,’ he hissed to himself. Or maybe it was just that, deep under his worries and his grumbles and his blather about sunsets, there was still a jagged little splinter left in him of that man he’d been years ago. That dagger-eyed fucker who would’ve bled all the blood in the North before he backed down a stride. The one who stuck himself in everyone’s craw.
‘Weapons,’ he growled. ‘Full gear! Battle gear!’ Hardly needed saying, really, but a good Chief should shout a lot. Yon was delving into the packhorse’s bags for the mail, dragging Brack’s big coat rattling free. Scorry pulling his spear from the other side, jerking the oilskin from the bright blade, humming to himself while he did it. Wonderful stringing her bow with quick hands, making it sing its own note as she tested it. All the while Whirrun knelt still, eyes closed, hands clasped before the Father of Swords.
‘Chief.’ Scorry tossed Craw’s blade over, stained belt wrapped around it.
‘Thanks.’ Though he didn’t feel too thankful as he snatched it out of the air. Started to buckle it on, memories of other bright, fierce times he’d done it flashing by. Memories of other company, long gone back to the mud. By the dead, but he was getting old.
Drofd stared around for a moment, hands opening and closing. Wonderful gave him a slap on the side of the head as she passed and he came round, started loosening the shafts in his quiver with twitchy fingers.
‘Chief.’ She handed Craw his shield and he slid it onto his arm, strap fitting into his clenched fist snug as a foot into an old boot.
‘Thanks.’ Craw looked over at Shivers, standing still with his arms folded, watching the dozen make ready. ‘How about you, lad? Front rank?’
Shivers tipped his face back, little grin on the side that wasn’t stiff with scar. ‘Front and middle,’ he croaked. Then he ambled off towards the ashes of the fire.
‘We could kill him,’ Wonderful muttered in Craw’s ear. ‘Don’t care how hard he is, arrow in the neck, job done.’
‘He’s just passing the message.’
‘Shooting the messenger ain’t always a bad idea.’ Joking, but only half. ‘Stops him taking messages back.’
‘Whether or not he’s here we’ve the same job. Keep hold o’ the Heroes. We’re meant to be fighters. A little fight shouldn’t get us shitting ourselves.’ He almost choked on the words, since he was mostly shitting himself from morning to night, and especially in fights.
‘A little fight?’ she muttered, loosening her sword in its sheath. ‘Near three to one? Do we really need this hill?’
‘Closer to two to one.’ As if that made it good odds. ‘If the Union do come, this hill’s the key to the whole valley.’ Giving himself reasons as much as her. ‘Better to fight for it now while we’re up here than give it away so we can fight our way up it later. That and it’s the right thing to do.’ She opened her mouth like she was going to argue. ‘The right thing!’ snapped Craw, and held his hand out, not wanting to give her the chance to talk him round.
She took a breath. ‘All right.’ She gave his hand a squeeze, almost painful. ‘We fight.’ And she walked away, pulling her archery guard on with her teeth. ‘Arm up, you bastards! We fight!’
Athroc and Agrick were ready, helmets on, bashing their shields together and grunting in each other’s faces, working themselves up to it. Scorry was holding his spear just under the blade, using it to shave bits of Shudder Root off a lump and into his mouth. Whirrun had finally stood up and now he was smiling into the blue sky with his eyes closed, sun on his face. His preparations didn’t go much beyond taking his coat off.
‘No armour.’ Yon was helping Brack into his mail, shaking his head as he frowned over at Whirrun. ‘What kind of a bloody hero don’t wear bloody armour?’
‘Armour …’ mused Whirrun, licking a finger and scrubbing some speck of dirt from the pommel of his sword, ‘is part of a state of mind … in which you admit the possibility … of being hit.’
‘What the
Wonderful clapped her hand down on Whirrun’s shoulder and leaned against him, one foot propped on its boot-toe. ‘How many years and you’re still expecting sense out o’ this article? He’s mad.’
‘We’re all fucking mad, woman!’ Brack was red in the face from holding his breath out while Yon struggled to get the buckles closed at his back. ‘Why else would we be fighting for a hill and some old rocks?’
‘War and madness have a lot in common.’ Scorry, not very helpfully, talking around his cheekful of mush.
Yon finally got the last buckle shut and held his arms out so Brack could start getting him into his mail. ‘Being mad don’t stop you wearing bloody armour, though, does it?’
Hardbread’s crew had made it through the orchards, and two sets of three split from the rest – one heading west around the base of the hill, the other north. Getting around their flanks. Drofd’s eyes were wide as he watched ’em moving, then the others getting their gear ready. ‘How can they make jokes? How can they make
