The Heroes

shrug.
    Her father looked up in that indulgent way he used to when she was a girl. ‘Are you entirely sure about that?’
    She sighed. ‘It’s as good as another.’
    He reached for a piece, and paused. His eyes darted around the board,hand hovering. His smile faded. He slowly withdrew the hand, touched one finger to his bottom lip. Then he started to smile. ‘Why, you—’
    ‘Something to take your mind off the casualties.’
    ‘I have Black Dow for that. Not to mention the First of the Magi and his colleagues.’ He sourly shook his head. ‘Are you staying here tonight? I could find you a—’
    ‘I should be with Hal.’
    ‘Of course. Of course you should.’ She bent and kissed him on the forehead, and he closed his eyes, held her shoulder for a moment. ‘Be careful tomorrow. I’d sooner lose ten thousand than lose you.’
    ‘You won’t shake me off that easily.’ She headed for the door. ‘I mean to live to see you get out of that move!’
    The rain had stopped for the time being and the officers had drifted back to their units. All except one.
    It looked as if Bremer dan Gorst had been caught between leaning nonchalantly against the rail their horses were tied to or standing proudly straight, and had ended up posed awkwardly in no-man’s-land between the two.
    Even so, Finree could not think of him as quite the harmless figure she once had, when they used to share brief and laughably formal conversations in the sunny gardens of the Agriont. Only a graze down the side of his face gave any indication that he had been in action at all that day, and yet she had it from Captain Hardrick that he had charged alone into a legion of Northmen and killed six. When she heard the story from Colonel Brint it had become ten. Who knew what story the enlisted men were telling by now? The pommel of his steel glinted faintly as he straightened, and she realised with an odd cold thrill that he had killed men with that sword, only a few hours before. Several men, whichever story you believed. It should not have raised him in her estimation in the least, and yet it did, very considerably. He had acquired the glamour of violence.
    ‘Bremer. Are you waiting for my father?’
    ‘I thought …’ in that strangely incongruous, piping voice of his, and then, slightly lower, ‘you might need an escort.’
    She smiled. ‘So there are still some heroes left in the world? Lead the way.’
    Calder sat in the damp darkness, a long spit from the shit-pits, listening to other men celebrate Black Dow’s victory. He didn’t like admitting it, but he missed Seff. He missed the warmth and safety of her bed. He certainly missed the scent of her as the breeze picked up and wafted the smell of dung under his nose. But in all this chaos of campfires, drunken singing, drunken boasting, drunken wrestling, there was only one place he couldthink of where you could be sure of catching a man alone. And treachery needs privacy.
    He heard heavy footsteps thumping towards the pit. Their maker was no more than a black outline with orange firelight down the edges, the very faintest grey planes of a face, but even so Calder recognised him. There were few men, even in this company, who were quite so wide. Calder stood, stretching out his stiff legs, and walked up to the edge of the pit beside the newcomer, wrinkling his nose. Pits full of shit, and pits full of corpses. That’s all war left behind, as far as he could see.
    ‘Cairm Ironhead,’ he said quietly. ‘What are the chances?’
    ‘My, my.’ The sound of spittle sucked from the back of a mouth, then sent spinning into the hole. ‘Prince Calder, this is an honour. Thought you were camped over to the west with your brother.’
    ‘I am.’
    ‘My pits smell sweeter than his, do they?’
    ‘Not much.’
    ‘Come to measure cocks with me, then? It ain’t how much you’ve got, you know, but what you do with it.’
    ‘You could say the same about strength.’
    ‘Or guile.’ Nothing else but silence. Calder didn’t like a silent man. A boastful man like Golden, an angry man like Tenways, even a savage man like Black Dow, they give you something to work with. A quiet man like Ironhead gives nothing. Especially in the dark, where Calder couldn’t even guess at his thoughts.
    ‘I need your help,’ he tried.
    ‘Think of running water.’
    ‘Not with that.’
    ‘With what, then?’
    ‘I’ve heard it said Black Dow wants me dead.’
    ‘More’n I know. But if it’s true,