The Heroes

Craw raised his brows. ‘Well, a good shit can be quite punishing, can’t it?’

‘Chief.’ Drofd nodded over towards the light beyond the trees and Craw hunched a little lower. There were men moving out there. Mounted men, though only their heads and shoulders showed from where Craw was crouching.

‘Union scouts,’ whispered Wonderful in his ear. Dogman’s lads, maybe, worked their way through the fields and the farmhouses and were casting out towards the treeline. The forest the whole length of the valley was crawling with armed and armoured Northmen. It was a wonder they weren’t seen yet.

Dow knew it, ’course. He coolly waved his axe over to the east, like he was asking for some beer to be brought over. ‘Best tell Reachey to go, ’fore they spoil our surprise.’ The word went out, that same gesture of Dow’s arm copied down the line in a wave.

‘Here we bloody go again, then,’ grunted Craw between chewing on his nails.

‘Here we go,’ Wonderful forced through tight lips, sword drawn in her hand.

‘I’m too old for this shit.’

‘Yep.’

‘Should’ve married Colwen.’

‘Aye.’

‘High time I retired.’

‘True.’

‘Could you stop fucking agreeing with me?’

‘Ain’t that the point of a Second? Support the Chief, no matter what! So I agree. You’re too old and you should’ve married Colwen and retired.’

Craw sighed as he offered his hand. ‘My thanks for your support.’

She gave it a squeeze. ‘Always.’

The deep, low blast of Reachey’s horn throbbed out from the east. Seemed to make the earth buzz, tickle at the roots of Craw’s hair. More horns, then came the feet, like distant thunder mixed with metal. He strained forwards, peering between the black tree trunks, trying to get a glimpse of Reachey’s men. Could hardly see more than a few of Osrung’s roofs across the sun-drenched fields. Then the war cries started, floating out over the valley, echoing through the trees like ghosts. Craw felt his skin tingling, part fear at what was coming and part wanting to spring up and add his own voice to the clamour.

‘Soon enough,’ he whispered, licking his lips as he stood, hardly noticing the pain in his leg no more.

‘I’d say so.’ Whirrun came up beside him, Father of Swords drawn and held under the crosspiece, his other hand pointing towards the Heroes. ‘Do you see that, Craw?’ Looked like there might be men moving at the top of the green slopes. Gathering around a standard, maybe. ‘They’re coming down. Going to be a happy meeting with Golden’s lads out in those fields, ain’t it?’ He gave his soft, high chuckle. ‘A happy meeting.’

Craw slowly shook his head. ‘Ain’t you worried at all?’

‘Why? Didn’t I say? Shoglig told me the time and place of my death, and—’

‘It’s not here and it’s not now, aye, only about ten thousand bloody times.’ Craw leaned in to whisper. ‘Did she tell you whether you’d get both your legs cut off here, though?’

‘No, that she didn’t,’ Whirrun had to admit. ‘But what difference would that make to my life, will you tell me? You can still sit around a fire and talk shit with no legs.’

‘Maybe they’ll cut your arms off too.’

‘True. If that happens … I’ll have to at least consider retirement. You’re a good man, Curnden Craw.’ And Whirrun poked him in the ribs. ‘Maybe I’ll pass the Father of Swords on to you, if you’re still breathing when I cross to the distant shore.’

Craw snorted. ‘I ain’t carrying that bastard thing around.’

‘You think I chose to carry it? Daguf Col picked me out for the task, on his death- pyre after the Shanka tore out his innards. Purplish.’

‘What?’

‘His innards. It has to go to someone, Craw. Ain’t you the one always saying there’s a right way to do things? Has to go to someone.’

They stood in silence for a moment longer, peering into the brightness beyond the trees, the wind stirring the leaves and making them rustle, shaking a few dry bits of green down onto the spears, and helmets, and shoulders of all those men kneeling in the brush. Birds chirping in the branches, tweet bloody tweet, and even quieter the distant screaming of Reachey’s charge.

Men were moving on the eastern flank of the Heroes. Union men, coming down. Craw rubbed his sweaty palms together, and drew his sword. ‘Whirrun.’

‘Aye?’

‘You ever wonder if Shoglig might’ve been wrong?’

‘Every bloody fight I get into.’

Devoutly to be Wished

Your August Majesty,