New Hands

Beck raised the axe high and snarled as he brought it down, split that log in two and pretended all the while it was some Union soldier’s head. Pretended there was blood spraying from it rather’n splinters. Pretended the babbling of the brook was the sound of men cheering for him and the leaves across the grass were women swooning at his feet. Pretended he was a great hero, like his father had been, won himself a high name on the battlefield and a high place at the fire and in the songs. He was the hardest bastard in the whole damn North, no doubt. Far as pretending went.

He tossed the split wood onto the pile, stooped down to drag up another log. Wiped his forehead on his sleeve and frowned across the valley, humming to himself from the Lay of Ripnir. Somewhere out there beyond the hills, Black Dow’s army was fighting. Out there beyond the hills high deeds were being done and tomorrow’s songs written. He spat into his palms, rough from wood-axe, and plough, and scythe, and shovel, and washboard even. He hated this valley and the people in it. Hated this farm and the work he did on it.

He was made to fight, not chop logs.

He heard footsteps slapping, saw his brother struggling up the steep path from the house, bent over. Back from the village already, and it looked like he’d run the whole way. Beck’s axe went up into the bright sky and came down, and one more Southerner’s skull was laid to waste. Festen made it to the top of the path and stood there, bent over, shaking hands on his wobbly knees, round cheeks blotchy pink, struggling for breath.

‘What’s the hurry?’ asked Beck, bending for more wood.

‘There’s … there’s …’ Festen fought to talk and breathe and stand up all at once. ‘There’s men in the village!’ he got out in a rush.

‘What sort o’ men?’

‘Carls! Reachey’s Carls!’

‘What?’ The axe hovered over Beck’s head, forgotten.

‘Aye. And they got a weapontake on!’

Beck stood there for a moment longer, then tossed the axe down on the pile of split logs and strode for the house. Strode fast and hard, his skin all singing. So fast Festen had to trot along to keep up, asking, ‘What you going to do?’ over and over and getting no reply.

Past the pen and the staring goats and the five big tree stumps all hacked and scarred from years of Beck’s blade practice every morning. Into the smoke-smelling darkness of the house, slashes of sunlight through the ill-fitting shutters, across bare boards and bald old furs. Wood creaked under his boots as he strode to his chest, knelt, pushed back the lid, tore his clothes out of the way with small patience. Lifted it with fingers tender as a lover’s. The only thing he cared for.

Gold glimmered in the gloom and he wrapped his fingers around the hilt, feeling the perfect balance of it, slid a foot-length of steel from the scabbard. Smiled at that sound, that scraping, singing sound that set his already jangling nerves to thrill. How often had he smiled down like this, polishing, sharpening, polishing, dreaming of this day, and now it was come. He slapped the sword back in its sheath, turned … and froze.

His mother stood in the doorway, watching. A black shadow with the white sky behind.

‘I’m taking my father’s sword,’ he snapped, shaking the hilt at her.

‘He was killed with that sword.’

‘It’s mine to take!’

‘It is.’

‘You can’t make me stay here no more.’ He stuffed a few things in the pack he kept ready. ‘You said this summer!’

‘I did.’

‘You can’t stop me going!’

‘Do you see me trying?’

‘By my age Shubal the Wheel had been seven years on campaign!’

‘Lucky him.’

‘It’s time. It’s past time!’

‘I know.’ She watched as he took his bow down, unstrung and wrapped up with a few shafts. ‘It’ll be cold nights, next month or two. Best take my good cloak with you.’

That caught him off guard. ‘I … no, you should keep it.’

‘I’d be happier knowing you had it.’

He didn’t want to argue in case he lost his nerve. Off all big and bold to face down a thousand thousand Southerners but scared of the one woman who’d birthed him. So he snatched her good green-dyed cloak down from the peg and over his shoulder as he stalked for the door. Treated it like nothing even though he knew it was the best thing she had.

Festen was standing outside, nervous, not really understanding what was happening. Beck ruffled his red hair for him. ‘You’re the man here, now. Get them logs chopped and I’ll bring you something back from the wars.’

‘They’ve got nothing there we need,’ said his mother, eyeing him from the shadows. Not angry, like she used to be. Just sad. He’d hardly realised ’til that moment how much bigger’n her he was now. The top of her head hardly came up to his neck, even.

‘We’ll see.’ He took the two steps down to the ground outside, under the mossy eaves of the house, couldn’t help turning back. ‘Well, then.’

‘One last thing, Beck.’ She leaned down, and kissed him on his forehead. The softest of kisses, gentle as the rain. She touched his cheek, and she smiled. ‘My son.’

He felt the tightness of tears in his throat, and he was guilty for what he’d said, and joyful to get his way at last, and angry for all the months he hadn’t, and sad to go, and afraid, and excited all at once. He could hardly make his face show one thing or another for all the different ways it was pulled. He touched the back of her hand quickly, and he turned before he started weeping and strode away down the path, and off to war.

Strode the way he thought his father might’ve.

The weapontake weren’t quite what Beck had hoped for.

Rain flitted down, not enough to make anyone wet, really, but enough to make everyone squint and hunch, to damp down the feel of the whole business. And the feel was pretty damn soggy already. Folk who’d come to join up, or been made to come, more likely, stood in things that might’ve started off as rows but had melted into squelching, jostling, grumbling tangles. Most of ’em were young lads, too young for this by Beck’s reckoning. Lads who might never have seen the next valley let alone a battle. Most of the rest were grey with age. A few cripples of one kind or another rounded out the numbers. At the edge of the crowd some of Reachey’s Carls stood leaning on spears or sat mounted, looking every bit as unimpressed by the new recruits as Beck was. All in all, it was a long, low way from the noble band of brothers he’d been hoping to play a hero’s part in.

He shook his head, one fist holding his mother’s cloak tight at his neck, the other underneath it, gripping the warm hilt of his father’s sword. He didn’t belong with this lot. Maybe Skarling Hoodless had started out with an unpromising crowd, and made an army of ’em that beat the Union, but Beck couldn’t see anyone telling high tales about this gathering of the hopeless. At one point he’d seen a new-made crew shambling by and two little lads at the front only had one spear between ’em. A weapontake without enough weapons to go round, you don’t hear much about that in the songs.

For some reason, most likely on account of daydreaming it so often, he’d been half-expecting old Caul Reachey himself to be looking on, a man who’d fought in every battle since whenever, a man who did everything the old way. Maybe catching Beck’s eye or giving him a slap on the back. Here’s the kind o’ lad we need! Everyone look at this lad! Let’s find us some more like him! But there was no sign of Reachey. Or anyone else who knew what they were doing. For a moment he looked at the muddy way he’d come, and gave some hard thought to heading back to the farm. He could be home before dawn—

‘Come to join up?’ A short man but heavy in the shoulder, hair and stubble full of grey, a mace at his belt looked like it had seen some action. He stood with his weight all on one leg, like the other might not take it.

Beck weren’t about to look the fool. He packed away any thoughts of quitting. ‘I’ve come to fight.’

‘Good for you. My name’s Flood, and I’ll be taking charge o’ this little crew when it’s mustered.’ He pointed out an unpromising row of boys, some with worn bows or hatchets, most with nothing but the clothes they stood in and those in a sorry state. ‘You want to do more’n talk about fighting, get in line.’

‘Reckon I will.’ Flood looked like he might know a sword from a sow at least, and one line looked pretty much as bad as another. So Beck swaggered up, chest out, and pushed his way in among the lads at the back. He fair towered over ’em, young as they were. ‘I’m Beck,’ he said.

‘Colving,’ muttered one. Couldn’t have been more’n thirteen and tubby with it, staring about wide-eyed, looking scared of everything.

‘Stodder,’ mumbled around a mouthful of some rotten-looking meat by a hangdog lad with a fat lower lip, wet and dangling like he was touched in the head.

‘I’m Brait,’ piped a boy even smaller’n Colving, ragged as a beggar, dirty toes showing through the end of one split boot. Beck was getting ready to feel sorry for him until he realised how bad he smelled. Brait offered his skinny hand but Beck didn’t take it. He was busy sizing up the last of the group, older’n the others with a bow over his shoulder and a scar through one dark eyebrow. Probably just fell off a wall, but it made him look more dangerous than he’d any right to. Beck wished he had a scar.

‘What about you?’

‘Reft.’ He’d this knowing little grin on his face Beck didn’t much like the look of. Felt right away like he was being laughed at.

‘Something funny?’

Reft waved a hand at the muddle all around ’em. ‘Something not funny?’

‘You laughing at me?’

‘Not everything’s about you, friend.’

Beck weren’t sure if this lad was making him look a fool, or if he was doing it to himself, or if he was just hacked off ’cause none of this matched his hopes, but he was getting angry, and fast. ‘You might want to watch your fucking—’

But Reft weren’t listening. He was looking over Beck’s shoulder, and so were the rest of the lads. Beck turned to see what at, got a shock to find a rider looming over him on a high horse. A good horse with an even better saddle, metal on the harness polished to a neat twinkle. A man of maybe thirty years, by Beck’s guess, clear-skinned and sharp-eyed. He wore a fine cloak with a stitched edge and a rich fur collar, might’ve made Beck shamed of the one his mother had given him if most of the others in the row hadn’t been wearing little better’n rags.

‘Evening.’ The rider’s voice was soft and smooth, the word hardly even sounding like Northern.

‘Evening,’ said Reft.

‘Evening,’ said Beck, no chance he was going to let Reft play at being leader.

The rider smiled down from his fancy saddle, just like they were all old mates together. ‘I don’t suppose you lads could point me to Reachey’s fire?’

Reft stuck a finger into the gathering gloom. ‘Over yonder, I reckon, on that rise there, lee o’ them trees.’ Black outlines against the evening sky, branches lit underneath by firelight.

‘Much obliged to you.’ The man nodded to each of them, even Brait and Colving, then clicked his tongue and nudged his horse through the press, smirk still at the corner of his mouth. Like he’d said something funny. Beck didn’t see what.

‘Who was that bastard?’ he snapped, once the rider was well out of earshot.

‘Don’t know,’ whispered Colving.

Beck curled his lip at the lad. ‘’Course you don’t. Weren’t asking you, was I?’

‘Sorry.’ He flinched like he was expecting a slap. ‘Just saying …’

‘Reckon that was the great Prince Calder,’ said Reft.

Beck’s lip curled further. ‘What, Bethod’s son? Ain’t a prince no more, then, is he?’

‘Reckon he thinks he is.’

‘Married to Reachey’s daughter, ain’t he?’ said Brait in his high little voice. ‘Come to pay respects to his wife’s father, maybe.’

‘Come to try and lie his way back into his father’s chair, judging on his reputation,’ said Reft.

Beck snorted. ‘Don’t reckon he’ll get much change out o’ Black Dow.’

‘Get the bloody cross cut in him for the effort, more’n likely,’ grunted Stodder, licking his fingers as he finished eating.

‘Get hung and burned, I reckon,’ piped up Colving. ‘That’s what he does, Black Dow, wi’ cowards and schemers.’

‘Aye,’ said Brait, as though he was the great expert. ‘Puts the flame to ’em himself and watches ’em dance.’

‘Can’t say I’ll weep any.’ Beck threw a dark glance after Calder, still easing through the press, high above everyone else in his saddle. If there was an opposite of a straight edge it was that bastard. ‘He don’t look much of a fighter.’

‘So?’ Reft’s grin dropped down to the hem of Beck’s cloak where the blunt end of the sword’s sheath showed. ‘You do look a fighter. Don’t necessarily make it so.’

Beck weren’t having that. He twitched his mother’s cloak back over his shoulder to give him room, fists clenched. ‘You calling me a fucking coward?’ Stodder slid carefully out of his way. Colving turned his scared eyes to the ground. Brait just had this helpless little smile.

Reft shrugged, not quite rising to it, but not quite backing down either. ‘Don’t know you well enough to say what y’are. Stood in the line, have you, in battle?’

‘Not in the line,’ snapped Beck, hoping they might think he’d fought a few skirmishes when in fact aside from some bare-handed tussles with boys in the village he’d only fought trees.

‘Then you don’t know yourself, do you? Never can tell what a man’ll do once the blades are drawn, shoulder to shoulder, waiting for the charge to come. Maybe you’ll stand and fight like Skarling his self. Or maybe you’ll run. Maybe you only talk a good fight.’

‘I’ll show you a fight, you fucker!’ Beck stepped forwards, one fist going up. Colving gave a whimper, covered his face like he was the one might get hit. Reft took a pace back, pulling his coat open with one hand. Beck saw the handle of a long knife there, and he realised when he pushed the cloak back he’d showed the hilt of his father’s sword, and it was right by his hand, and it came to him of a sudden how high the stakes had climbed all out of nothing. It came to him in a flash this might not end up a tussle between boys in the village, and he saw the fear in Reft’s eyes, and the willingness, and the guts dropped out of him, and he faltered for a moment, not knowing how he got here or what he should do—

‘Oy!’ Flood lurched out of the crowd, dragging his bad leg behind him. ‘Enough o’ that!’ Beck slowly let his fist drop, mightily glad of the interruption if he was honest. ‘Good to see you’ve some fire in you, but there’ll be plenty of fight to go round with the Southerners, don’t you worry about that. We got marching to do on the morrow, and you’ll march better without smashed mouths.’ Flood held his big fist up between Beck and Reft, grey hairs on the back, knuckles scuffed from a hundred old scrapes. ‘And that’s what you’ll be getting ’less you behave yourselves, understand?’

‘Aye, Chief,’ growled Beck, giving Reft the eye though his heart was going so hard in his ears he thought it might pop ’em right off.

‘Aye, ’course,’ said Reft, letting his coat fall closed.

‘First thing a fighter has to learn is when not to fight. Now get up there, the pair o’ you.’

Beck realised the row of lads had melted away in front of him and there was just a stretch of trampled mud between him and a table, an awning of dripping canvas over it to keep the rain off. An old greybeard sat there waiting for him, and looking somewhat sour about it. He’d lost an arm, coat-sleeve folded up and stitched across his chest. In the other hand he’d got a pen. Seemed they were taking each man’s name and marking it down in a big book. New ways of doing things, with writing and what have you. Beck didn’t reckon his father would’ve cared much for that, and neither did he. What was the purpose to fighting the Southerners if you took their ways yourselves? He trudged up through the slop, frowning.

‘Name?’

‘My name?’

‘Who the bloody hell else’s?’

‘Beck.’

The greybeard scratched it on his paper. ‘From?’

‘A farm just up the valley there.’

‘Age?’

‘Seventeen year.’

The man frowned up at him. ‘And a big one too. You’re a few summers late, lad. Where you been at?’

‘Helping my mother on the farm.’ Someone behind snorted and Beck whipped around to give him a proper glare. Brait’s sorry little grin wilted, and he looked down at his knackered shoes. ‘She’s two little ’uns to care for, so I stayed to help her. That’s man’s work too.’

‘Guess you’re here now, anyway.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Your father’s name?’

‘Shama Heartless.’

His head jerked right back up at that. ‘Don’t poke me, lad!’

‘I won’t, old man. Shama Heartless was my father. This here is his sword.’ And Beck drew it, metal hissing, the weight in his hand putting heart right back in him, and stood it point-down on the table.

The one-armed old man looked it up and down for a moment, gold glinting with the sunset, mirror-brightness of good steel. ‘Well, there’s a turn-up. Let’s hope you’re forged from the same iron as your father.’

‘I am.’

‘Reckon we’ll see. Here’s your first staple, lad.’ And he pressed a tiny silver coin into Beck’s palm and took up his pen again. ‘Next man.’

And there you go, farmer no more. Joined up with Caul Reachey and ready to fight for Black Dow against the Union. Beck sheathed his sword and stood frowning in the thickening rain, in the gathering darkness. A girl with red hair turned brown by the damp was pouring out grog for those who’d given their names and Beck took his own measure and threw it burning down his gullet. He tossed the cup aside, watching Reft, and Colving, and Stodder give their answers, thinking how it didn’t matter a shit what these fools thought. He’d win his name. He’d show ’em who was the coward.

And who was the hero.