The Right Thing

‘Is it true?’ asked Drofd.

‘Eh?’

‘Is it true?’ The lad nodded towards Skarling’s Finger, standing proud on its own tump of hill, casting no more’n a stub of shadow since it was close to midday. ‘That Skarling Hoodless is buried under there?’

‘Doubt it,’ said Craw. ‘Why would he be?’

‘Ain’t that why they call it Skarling’s Finger, though?’

‘What else would they call it?’ asked Wonderful. ‘Skarling’s Cock?’

Brack raised his thick brows. ‘Now you mention it, it does look a bit like a—’

Drofd cut him off. ‘No, I mean, why call it that if he ain’t buried there?’

Wonderful looked at him like he was the biggest idiot in the North. He might’ve been in the running. ‘There’s a stream near my husband’s farm – my farm – they call ‘Skarling’s Beck. There’s probably fifty others in the North. Most likely there’s a legend he wet his manly thirst in their clear waters before some speech or charge or noble stand from the songs. Daresay he did no more’n piss in most of ’em if he ever even came within a day’s ride. That’s what it is to be a hero. Everyone wants a little bit of you.’ She nodded at Whirrun, kneeling before the Father of Swords with hands clasped and eyes closed. ‘In fifty years there’ll more’n likely be a dozen Whirrun’s Becks scattered across farms he never went to, and numbskulls will point at ’em, all dewy-eyed, and ask – ‘‘Is it true Whirrun of Bligh’s buried under that stream?’’’ She walked off, shaking her cropped head.

Drofd’s shoulders slumped. ‘I only bloody asked, didn’t I? I thought that was why they called ’em the Heroes, ’cause there are heroes buried under ’em.’

‘Who cares who’s buried where?’ muttered Craw, thinking about all the men he’d seen buried. ‘Once a man’s in the ground he’s just mud. Mud and stories. And the stories and the men don’t often have much in common.’

Brack nodded. ‘Less with every time the story’s told.’

‘Eh?’

‘Bethod, let’s say,’ said Craw. ‘You’d think to hear the tales he was the most evil bastard ever set foot in the North.’

‘Weren’t he?’

‘All depends on who you ask. His enemies weren’t keen on him, and the dead know he made a lot o’ the bastards. But look at all he did. More’n Skarling Hoodless ever managed. Bound the North together. Built the roads we march on, half the towns. Put an end to the warring between the clans.’

‘By starting wars with the Southerners.’

‘Well, true. There’s two sides to every coin, but there’s my very point. People like simple stories.’ Craw frowned at the pink marks down the edges of his nails. ‘But people ain’t simple.’

Brack slapped Drofd on the back and near made him fall. ‘Except for you, eh, boy?’

‘Craw!’ Wonderful’s voice had that note in it made everyone turn. Craw sprang up, or as close as he got to springing these days, and hurried over to her, wincing as his knee crunched like breaking twigs, sending stings right up into his back.

‘What am I looking at?’ He squinted at the Old Bridge, at the fields and pastures and hedgerows, at the river and the fells beyond, struggling to shield his watery eyes from the wind and make the blurry valley come sharp.

‘Down there, at the ford.’

Now he saw them and his guts hollowed out. Little more’n dots to his eyes, but men for sure. Wading through the shallows, picking their way over the shingle, dragging themselves up onto the bank. The north bank. Craw’s bank.

‘Shit,’ he said. Not enough of ’em to be Union men, but coming from the south, which meant they were the Dogman’s boys. Which meant more’n likely—

‘Hardbread’s back.’ Shivers’ whisper was the last thing Craw needed behind him. ‘And he’s found himself some friends.’

‘Weapons!’ shouted Wonderful.

‘Eh?’ Agrick stood staring with a cookpot in his hands.

‘Weapons, idiot!’

‘Shit!’ Agrick and his brother started running around, shouting at each other, dragging their packs open and spilling gear about the trampled grass.

‘How many do you count?’ Craw patted his pocket but his eyeglass was missing. ‘Where the bloody hell—’

Brack had it pressed to his face. ‘Twenty-two,’ he grunted.

‘You sure?’

‘I’m sure.’

Wonderful rubbed at the long scar down her scalp. ‘Twenty-two. Twenty-two. Twenty … two.’

The more she said it the worse it sounded. A particularly shitty number. Too many to beat without taking a terrible chance, but few enough that – with the ground on their side and a happy fall of the runes – it might be done. Too few to just run away from, without having to tell Black Dow why. And fighting outnumbered might be the lighter risk than telling Black Dow why.

‘Shit.’ Craw glanced across at Shivers and caught his good eye looking back. Knew he’d juggled the same sum and come up with the same answer, but that he didn’t care how much blood got spilled along the way, how many of Craw’s dozen went back to the mud for this hill. Craw did care. Maybe too much, these days. Hardbread and his boys were out of the river now, last of ’em disappearing into the browning apple trees between the shallows and the foot of the hill, heading for the Children.

Yon appeared between two of the Heroes, bundle of sticks in his arms, puffing away from the climb. ‘Took a 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 fuck?’ Yon tugged hard at the straps and made Brack grunt. ‘What does that even mean?’

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 bloody jokes?’

‘Because every man finds courage his own way.’ Craw didn’t admit that giving advice was his. There’s nothing better for a dose of terror than standing by someone even more terrified than yourself. He clasped Drofd’s hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘Just breathe, lad.’

Drofd took a shuddering breath in and forced it out. ‘Right y’are, Chief. Breathe.’

Craw turned to face the rest of the crew. ‘Right, then! They’ve two parties of three trying to get on our flanks, then a few less than a score coming up front.’ He rushed through the numbers, maybe hoping no one would notice the odds. Maybe hoping he wouldn’t. ‘Athroc, Agrick, Wonderful to skirmish, Drofd too, give ’em arrows while they climb, spread ’em out on the slope. When they get in close to the stones … we charge.’ He saw Drofd swallow, not much taken with the idea of charging. The dead knew Craw could think of other ways to spend an afternoon himself. ‘There aren’t enough of ’em to get all around us, and we’ve got the ground. We can pick where we hit ’em, and hit ’em hard. Any luck we’ll break ’em before they get set, then if the other six have a mind to fight we can mop up.’

‘Hit ’em hard!’ growled Yon, clasping hands with the others one after another.

‘Just wait for my word, and move together.’

‘Together.’ Wonderful slapped her right hand into Scorry’s and punched him on the arm with her left.

‘Me, Shivers, Brack, Yon, we’re front and centre.’

‘Aye, Chief,’ said Brack, still struggling with Yon’s mail.

‘Fucking aye!’ Yon took a practice swipe with his axe and jerked the buckles out of Brack’s hands.

Shivers grinned and stuck his tongue out, not especially reassuring.

‘Athroc and Agrick fall back to the wings.’

‘Aye,’ they chimed in together.

‘Scorry, anyone tries to get around the side early on, give ’em a poke. Once we close up, you’re the back rank.’

Scorry just hummed to himself, but he’d heard.

‘Whirrun. You’re the nut in the shell.’

‘No.’ Whirrun took the Father of Swords from its place against the stone and lifted it high, pommel glinting with the sunlight. ‘This is. Which makes me … I guess … that kind of… flaky bit between the nut and the shell.’

‘You’re flaky all right,’ muttered Wonderful, under her breath.

‘You can be whatever bit of the nut you like,’ said Craw, ‘long as you’re there when it cracks.’

‘Oh, I’m going nowhere until you show me my destiny.’ Whirrun pushed back his hood and scrubbed a hand through his flattened hair. ‘Just like Shoglig promised me you would.’

Craw sighed. ‘Can’t wait. Questions?’ No sound except the wind fumbling across the grass, the clapping of palms as they all finished shaking hands, the grunt and jingle as Brack finally got Yon’s armour buckled. ‘All right. ’Case I don’t have the chance to say it again, been an honour fighting with you all. Or an honour slogging across the North in all weathers, anyway. Just keep in mind what Rudd Threetrees once told me. Let’s us get them killed, and not the other way round.’

Wonderful grinned. ‘Best damn advice about war I ever heard.’

The rest of Hardbread’s lads were coming now. The big group. Coming slowly, taking time, up the long slope towards the Children. More than dots now. A lot more’n dots. Men, with a purpose, the odd glint of sunlight on sharp metal. A heavy hand thumped down on his shoulder and Craw jumped, but it was only Yon behind him.

‘A word, Chief?’

‘What’s to do?’ Though he knew already.

‘The usual. If I’m killed—’

Craw nodded, keen to cut it short. ‘I’ll find your sons, and give ’em your share.’

‘And?’

‘I’ll tell ’em what you were.’

‘All of it.’

‘All of it.’

‘Good. And don’t dress it up any, you old bastard.’

Craw waved a hand at his stained coat. ‘When did you last see me dress anything up?’

Yon might’ve had a trace of a smile as they clasped hands. ‘Not lately, Chief, that’s sure.’ Left Craw wondering who’d need telling when he went back to the mud. His family were all here.

‘Talking time,’ said Wonderful.

Hardbread had left his men behind at the Children and was climbing the grassy slope with empty hands and open grin turned up towards the Heroes. Craw drew his sword, felt the frightening, reassuring weight of it in his hand. Knew the sharpness of it, worked at with whetstone every day for a dozen years. Life and death in a length of metal.

‘Makes you feel big, don’t it?’ Shivers spun his own axe around in one fist. A brutal-looking article, studs through the heavy wooden shaft, bearded head notched and gleaming. ‘A man should always be armed. If only for the feel of it.’

‘An unarmed man is like an unroofed house,’ muttered Yon.

‘They’ll both end up leaking,’ Brack finished for him.

Hardbread stopped well within bowshot, long grass brushing at his calves. ‘Hey, hey, Craw! Still up there, then?’

‘Sadly, yes.’

‘Sleeping well?’

‘I’d rather have a feather pillow. You brought me one?’

‘Wish I had one spare. That Caul Shivers up there with you?’

‘Aye. And he brought two dozen Carls with him.’ It was worth a stab, but Hardbread only grinned.

‘Good try. No he didn’t. Haven’t seen you in a while, Caul. How are things?’

Shivers gave the smallest shrug. Nothing more.

Hardbread raised his brows. ‘Like that, is it?’

Another shrug. Like the sky could fall in and it’d make no difference to him.

‘Have it your way. How about it, then, Craw? Can I have my hill back?’

Craw worked his hand around the grip of his sword, raw skin at the corners of his chewed fingernails burning. ‘I’ve a mind to sit here a few days more.’

Hardbread frowned. Not the answer he’d been hoping for. ‘Look, Craw, you gave me a chance the other night, so I’m giving you one. There’s a right way o’ doing things, and fair’s fair. But you might’ve noticed I had some friends come up this morning.’ And he jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards the Children. ‘So I’ll ask one more time. Can I have my hill back?’

Last chance. Craw gave a long sigh, and shouted it into the wind. ‘’Fraid not, Hardbread! ’Fraid you’ll have to come up here and take it off me!’

‘How many you got up there? Nine? Against my two dozen?’

‘We’ve faced down worse odds!’ Though he couldn’t remember ever picking ’em willingly.

‘Good for fucking you, I wouldn’t fancy it!’ Hardbread brought his voice back down from angry to reasonable. ‘Look, there ain’t no need for this to get out of hand—’

‘’Cept we’re in a war!’ And Craw found he’d roared the last word with a sight more venom than he’d planned on.

Far as he could tell over the distance, Hardbread had lost his grin. ‘Right y’are. Thought I’d give you the chance you gave me is all.’

‘That’s good o’ you. Appreciate it. Just can’t move.’

‘That’s a shame all round.’

‘Aye. But there ’tis.’

Hardbread took a breath, like he was about to speak, but he didn’t. He just stood still. So did Craw. So did all his crew behind him, looking down. So did all Hardbread’s too, looking up. Silent on the Heroes, except for the wind sighing, a bird or two warbling somewhere, a few bees buzzing in the warm, tending to the flowers. A peaceful moment. Considering they had a war to be about.

Then Hardbread snapped his mouth shut, turned around and walked back down the steep slope towards the Children.

‘I could shoot him,’ muttered Wonderful.

‘I know you could,’ said Craw. ‘And you know you can’t.’

‘I know. Just saying.’

‘Maybe he’ll think it over, and decide against.’ But Brack didn’t sound all that hopeful.

‘No. He don’t like this any more’n us, but he backed down once already. His odds are too good to do it again.’ Craw almost whispered the last words. ‘Wouldn’t be right.’ Hardbread reached the Children and vanished among the stones. ‘Everyone without a bow, back inside the Heroes and wait for the moment.’

The quiet stretched out. Niggling pain in Craw’s knee as he shifted his weight. Raised voices behind, Yon and Brack arguing about nothing as they got their stub of a line ready. More quiet. War’s ninety-nine parts boredom and, now and then, one part arse-opening terror. Craw had a powerful sense one of those was about to drop on him from a height.

Agrick had planted a few arrows in the earth, flights fluttering like the seed heads on the long grass. Now he rocked back on his heels, rubbing at his jaw. ‘Might be he’ll wait for dark.’

‘No. If he’s been sent more men, it’s ’cause the Dogman wants this hill. The Union wants this hill. He won’t risk us getting help by tonight.’

‘Then …’ muttered Drofd.

‘Aye. I reckon they’ll be coming now.’

By some unhappy chance, as Craw said the word ‘now’, men started to ease out from the shadows of the Children. They formed up in an orderly row, at a steady pace. A shield wall perhaps a dozen men wide, spear-points of a second row glittering behind, archers on the flanks, staying in the cover of the shields.

‘Old style,’ said Wonderful, nocking an arrow.

‘Wouldn’t expect nothing else from Hardbread. He’s old style himself.’ A bit like Craw. Two old leftover fools lasted longer than they’d any right to, setting to knock chunks out of each other. The right way, at least. They’d do it the right bloody way. He looked to the sides, straining for some sign of the two little groups who’d broken off. Couldn’t see no one. Crawling in the long grass, maybe, or just biding their time.

Agrick drew his bowstring back to his frown. ‘When d’you want me to shoot?’

‘Soon as you can hit something.’

‘Anyone in particular?’

Craw scraped his tongue over his front teeth. ‘Anyone you can put down.’ Say it straight, why not, he ought to have the bones to say it, at least. ‘Anyone you can kill.’

‘I’ll do my best.’

‘Do your worst and I’ll be happier.’

‘Right y’are.’ Agrick let fly, just a ranging shot, flitting over the heads of Hardbread’s lot and making ’em duck. Wonderful’s first arrow stuck humming into a shield and the man behind it dropped back, dragging the shield wall apart. It was starting to break up anyway, for all Hardbread’s shouting. Some men moving quicker, some tiring faster on that bastard of a slope.

Drofd shot too, his arrow going way high, lost somewhere short of the Children. ‘Shit!’ he cursed, snatching at another arrow with a trembling hand.

‘Easy, Drofd, easy. Breathe.’ But Craw was finding easy breathing a bit of a challenge himself. He’d never cared for arrows. ’Specially, it hardly needed saying, when they were falling out of the sky at him. They didn’t look much but they could have your death on the end, all right. He remembered seeing the shower of ’em dropping down towards their line at Ineward, like a flock of angry birds. Nowhere to run to. Just had to hope.

One sailed up now and he stepped sideways, behind the nearest Hero, crouching in the cover of his shield. Not much fun watching that shaft spin down, wondering whether the wind would snatch it at the last moment and put it right through him. It glanced off the stone and spun harmlessly away. Not a lot of air between your death and an arrow in the grass.

The man who’d shot it paused on one knee, fiddling with his quiver as the safety of the shields crept up the slope away from him. Athroc’s shaft took him in the stomach. Craw saw his mouth open wide, his own arrow flying from his hand, his scream coming a moment later, sputtering out into a long-drawn wail. Maybe it was the sound of their odds getting that little bit better, but Craw still didn’t much like hearing it. Didn’t like the notion that he might be making a sound like that himself before the hour was out.

The end of the shield wall got ragged as men looked over at the howling archer, wondering whether to help or press on, or just wondering whether they’d be next. Hardbread barked orders, straightened up his line, but Wonderful’s next arrow flitted close over their heads and bent ’em out of shape again. Craw’s people had the height as an ally, could shoot fast and flat. Hardbread’s had to shoot high, where the wind was sure to drag their shafts around. Still, there was no call to take chances. They wouldn’t be settling this with arrows.

Craw let Drofd loose one more, then grabbed his arm. ‘Back to the others.’

The lad jerked around, looking like he was about to scream. Battle lust on him, maybe. You never could tell who’d get it. Mad fear and mad courage are two leaves on one nettle all right, and you wouldn’t want to grab a hold of either one. Craw dug his fingers into the lad’s shoulder and dragged him close. ‘Back to the others, I said!’

Drofd swallowed, Craw’s hand squeezing the sense back into him. ‘Chief.’ And he stumbled back between the stones, bent double.

‘Fall back when you have to!’ Craw shouted at Wonderful. ‘Take no chances!’

‘Too fucking right!’ she hissed over her shoulder, nocking another shaft.

Craw crept backwards, keeping an eye out for arrows until he was past the stones, then hurrying across the circle of grass, stupidly happy to get another couple of moments safe and feeling a coward because of it. ‘They’re on the— Gah!’

Something caught his foot and he twisted his ankle, pain stabbing up his leg. Limped the rest of the way, teeth bared, and fell into line in the centre.

‘Evil, those rabbit holes,’ whispered Shivers.

Before Craw could gather the wits to answer, Wonderful came running between two of the Heroes, waving her bow. ‘They’re past the wall! Got one more o’ the bastards!’

Agrick was at her heels, swinging his shield off his back, an arrow looping over from behind and sticking into the turf by his boots as he ran. ‘The rest are coming!’

Craw could hear their shouting from down below, still the faint scream of the stuck archer, all turned strange by the wind. ‘Get back ’ere!’ he heard Hardbread bellow, short on breath. Sounded like they were still losing shape on the run up, some eager, some the opposite, not used to fighting together. That favoured Craw’s crew, most of ’em been together for what felt like centuries.

He stole a glance over his shoulder and Scorry winked back, chewing away. Old friends, old brothers. Whirrun had his sword out of its sheath, great length of dull grey metal with hardly a gleam to its edge even in the sun. Like the runes had said, there was going to be blood. The only question was whose. It passed between ’em as their eyes met, no words spoken and none needed.

Wonderful knelt at the end of their little line in the shadow of Athroc’s shield, nocked an arrow, and Craw’s dozen were ready as they’d ever get.

Someone crept around one of the stones. His shield might’ve had something painted on it once but so scuffed by war and weather there was no telling what. Sword bright in his hand, helmet on, but he hardly looked like anyone’s enemy. He looked knackered, mouth hanging open, panting from the long climb.

He stood staring at ’em, and they stared back. Craw felt Yon straining next to him, bursting to go, heard Shivers’ breath crackling through gritted teeth, heard Brack growling deep in his throat, everyone’s jangling nerves setting everyone else’s jangling even worse.

‘Steady,’ Craw hissed, ‘steady.’ Knew the hardest thing at a time like that was just to stand. Men ain’t made for it. You need to charge or you need to flee, but either way you’re desperate to move, to run, to scream. Had to wait, though. Finding the right moment was everything.

Another of Hardbread’s crew showed themselves, knees bent low, peering over his shield. It had a fish painted on it, and badly. Craw wondered if his name was Fishy, felt a stupid urge to laugh, quickly gone.

They had to go soon. Use the ground. Catch ’em on the slope. Break ’em fast. It was up to him to feel the moment. Like he knew. Time was stretched out, full of details. Breath in his sore throat. Breeze tickling the back of his hand. Blades of grass shifting with the wind. His mouth so dry he wasn’t sure he’d be able to say the word even if he thought the time was right.

Drofd loosed an arrow and the two men ducked down. But the sound of the string loosed something in Craw and, before he’d even thought whether it was the right moment or not, he’d given a great roar. Hardly even a word but his crew got the gist, and like a pack of dogs suddenly slipped the leash, they were away. Too late now. Maybe one moment’s good as another anyway.

Feet pounding the ground, jolting his teeth, jolting his sore knee. Wondering if he’d hit another rabbit hole, go sprawling. Wondering where the six men were who’d gone around ’em. Wondering whether they should’ve backed off. What those two idiots, three now, they were charging at were thinking. What lies he’d tell Yon’s sons.

The others matched him step for step, rims of their shields scraping against his, jostling at his shoulders. Jolly Yon on one side and Caul Shivers on the other. Men who knew how to hold a line. It occurred to Craw he was probably the weak link in here. Then that he thought too much.

Hardbread’s boys skipped and wobbled with each footfall, more of ’em up now, trying to get some shape between the stones. Yon let go his war cry, high and shrill, then Athroc and his brother too, then they were all giving it the screech and wail, boots hammering the old sod of the Heroes. Ground where men prayed once, maybe, long ago. Prayed for better times.

Craw felt the terror and joy of battle burning in his chest, burning up his throat, Hardbread’s men a buckled line of shields, blurred weapons between, blades swaying, twinkling.

They were between the stones, they were on ’em.

‘Break!’ roared Craw.

Him and Yon went left, Shivers and Brack went right, and Whirrun came out of the gap they left, howling his devil shriek. Craw caught a glimpse of the nearest face, jaw dropping, eyes wide. Men ain’t just brave or not. It all depends on how things stand. Who stands beside ’em. Whether they’ve just had to run up a great big fucking hill with arrows falling on ’em. He seemed to shrink, this lad, trying to get his whole body behind his shield as the Father of Swords fell on him like a mountain. A mountain sharpened to a razor-edge.

Metal screamed, wood and flesh burst apart. Blood roaring and men roaring in Craw’s ears. He twisted himself sideways, missed a spear-thrust, crashed on, blade rattling off wood, turning him, went into someone shield-first with a bone-jarring crunch and sent him over backwards, sliding down the hillside.

He saw Hardbread, long grey hair tangled around his face. His sword went up quick but Whirrun was quicker, arm snaking out and ramming the pommel of the Father of Swords into Hardbread’s mouth, snapping his head back and sending him toppling. Craw had other worries. Crushed against a snarling cave of a face, sour breath blasting him. Dragging at his snagged sword, trying to get space to swing. He shoved with his shield, had the slope on his side, drove his man back enough to make room.

Athroc whacked a shield with his axe, got his whacked in reply. Craw chopped, his elbow caught on the shaft of a spear, tangled with it, his sword just tapped someone with the flat. A friendly pat on the shoulder.

Whirrun was in the midst of ’em, Father of Swords making blurred circles, scattering men squealing. Someone got in the way. Hardbread’s nephew. ‘Oh—’ And he fell in half. His arm flew in the air, body turning over and around, legs toppling. The long blade pinged like ice shifting as the weather warms, spots of blood showering off it. Craw gasped as they pit-pattered on his face, hacked away at a shield, teeth squeezed together so hard seemed they’d crack. Still snarling something through ’em, didn’t know what, splinters in his face. Movement at the corner of his eye, shield up on an instinct and something thudded into it, cracking the rim into his jaw, making him stumble sideways, arm numbed.

He saw a weapon black against bright sky, caught it on his own as it came down. Blades clashing, scraping, grunting in someone’s face, looked like Jutlan but Jutlan was years in the ground. Staggering around, offbalance on the slope, fingers clutching. His knee burned, his lungs burned. Gleam of Shivers’ eye, battle smile creasing his ruined face. His axe split Jutlan’s head open wide, dark pulp smeared down Craw’s shield. Shoved him off, corpse tumbling through the grass. Father of Swords ripped armour beside him, bent mail rings flying, stinging the back of Craw’s hand.

Clash and clatter, scrape and rattle, scream and hiss, thump, crack, men swearing and bellowing like animals at the slaughterhouse. Was Scorry singing? Something across Craw’s cheek, in his eye, snatched his head away. Blood, blade, dirt, no way of knowing, lurched sideways as something came at him and he slid onto his elbow. Spear, snarling face with a birth-mark behind, spear jabbing, flapped it away clumsily with his shield, trying to scramble up. Scorry stuck the man in the shoulder and he fumbled his spear, wound welling.

Wonderful with blood all over her face. Hers or someone else’s or both. Shivers laughing, smashing the metal rim of his shield into someone’s mouth as they lay. Crunch, crunch, die, die. Yon shouting, axe going up and clattering down. Drofd stumbling, holding his bloody arm, broken wreck of his bow all tangled around his back.

Someone jumped after him with a spear and Craw stepped in his way, head buzzing with his own hoarse roar, sword lashing across. Grip jolted in his fist, cloth and leather flapped, split, bloody. Man’s spear dropping, mouth open, long shriek drooling out of it. Craw hacked him down on the backswing, body spinning as it fell, severed arm flopping in his sleeve, black blood frozen in white cloud.

Someone was running away down the hill. Arrow flitted past, missed. Craw leaped at him, missed. Tangled with Agrick’s elbow. Slid and fell hard, dug himself with his sword hilt, left himself open. But the runner didn’t care, bounding off, flinging his shield away bouncing on its edge.

Craw tore his sword up along with a handful of grass. Nearly swung at someone, stopped himself. Scorry, gripping to his spear. All of Hardbread’s lot were running. The ones that were alive. When men break they break all at once, like a wall falling, like a cliff splitting off into the sea. Broken. Thought he saw Hardbread stumbling after, bloody-mouthed. Half wanted the old bastard to get away, half wanted to charge on and kill him.

‘Behind! Behind!’ He tottered around, fear dragging at his guts, saw men among the stones. There was no shape left to any of it. Sun twinkling bright, blinding. He heard screams, clashing metal. He was running back, back between the stones, shield clattering against rock, arm numb. Breath wheezing now, aching. Coughing and running on.

The packhorse was dead beside the fire, arrow poking from its ribs. Shield with a red bird on it, blade rising and falling. Wonderful loosed a shaft, missed. Redcrow turned and ran, a bowman behind shooting an arrow and it looped over towards Wonderful. Craw stepped in front of it, eyes rooted to it, caught it on his shield and it glanced away into the tall grass.

And they were gone.

Agrick was looking down at something, not far from the fire. Staring down, axe in one hand, helmet in the other. Craw didn’t want to know what he was looking at, but he already knew.

One of Hardbread’s lot was crawling away, making the grass thrash as he dragged bloody legs behind him. Shivers walked up and split his head with the back of his axe. Not that hard, but hard enough. Neat. Like a practised miner testing the ground. Someone was still screaming, somewhere. Or maybe it was just in Craw’s head. Maybe just the sighing breath in his throat. He blinked around. Why the hell had they stayed? He shook his head like it might shake the answer out. Just made his jaw ache worse.

‘The leg move?’ Scorry was asking, squatting down over Brack, sitting on the ground gripping a bloody hand to one big thigh.

‘Aye, it fucking moves! It just fucking hurts to fucking move it!’

Craw was sticky with sweat, scratchy, burning hot. His jaw was throbbing where his shield had cracked it, arm throbbing too. Dodgy knee and ankle doing their usual whining, but he didn’t seem hurt. Not really. Not sure how he’d come out of that not hurt. The hot glow of battle was fading fast, his aching legs shaky as a new-born calf’s, his sight swimming. Like he’d borrowed all the strength he’d used and had to pay it back with interest. He took a few steps towards the burned-out fire and the dead packhorse. No sign of the saddle horses. Run off or dead. He dropped down on his arse in the middle of the Heroes.

‘You all right?’ Whirrun was leaning over him, great long sword held below the crosspiece in one fist, blade all spattered and dashed. Blooded, the way it had to be. Once the Father of Swords is drawn, it has to be blooded. ‘You all right?’

‘I reckon.’ Craw’s fingers were so tight around the strap of his shield he could hardly remember how to make them unclench. Finally forced ’em open, let the shield drop into the grass, its face showing a few fresh gouges to go with a hundred old wounds, a new dent in the dull boss.

Wonderful’s stubbly hair was matted with blood. ‘What happened?’ Rubbing her eyes on the back of her arm. ‘Am I cut?’

‘Scratch,’ Scorry said, prodding at her scalp with his thumbs.

Drofd was kneeling beside her, rocking back and forward, gripping tight to his arm, blood streaked to his fingertips.

The sun flashed in Craw’s eyes, made his lids flicker. He could hear Yon screaming, over by the stones, roaring after Hardbread and his lads. ‘Come back ’ere, you fuckers! Come on you bastard cowards!’ Couldn’t make no difference. Every man’s a coward. A coward and a hero, depending how things stand. They weren’t coming back. Looked like they’d left eight corpses behind. They weren’t coming back. Craw prayed to the old dead Gods of this place they weren’t coming back.

Scorry was singing, soft and low and sad as he took needle and thread from his pouch to start the stitching. You get no happy songs after a battle. The jaunty tunes come beforehand and they usually do some injury to the truth.

Craw caught himself thinking they’d come out of it well. Very well. Just the one dead. Then he looked at Athroc’s silly-slack face, eyes all crossed, jerkin all ripped up by Redcrow’s axe and turned sloppy red with his insides, and was sick with himself for thinking it. He knew this would stay with him, along with all the others. We all got our weights to heft.

He lay back in the grass and watched the clouds move, shift. Now one memory, now another. A good leader can’t dwell on the choices he’s made, Threetrees used to tell him, and a good leader can’t help dwelling on ’em.

He’d done the right thing. Maybe. Or maybe there’s no such thing.