The Heroes

bastard saved my life. Always had a kind word, or a funny one. Think he even made Yon laugh one time.’
    ‘Twice,’ said Yon, face harder’n ever. Got any harder he’d be knocking lumps from the Heroes with it.
    ‘He made no complaints. Except not enough to eat.’ Craw’s voice went for a moment and he gave a kind of squeaky croak. Stupid bloody noise for a Chief to make, ’specially at a time like this. He cleared his throat and hammered on. ‘Never enough for Brack to eat. He died … peaceful. Reckon he’d have liked that, even if he loved a good fight. Dying in your sleep is a long stretch better’n dying with steel in your guts, whatever the songs say.’
    ‘Fuck the songs,’ said Wonderful.
    ‘Aye. Fuck ’em. Don’t know who’s buried under here, really. But if it’s Skarling his self he should be proud to share some earth with Brack-i-Dayn.’ Craw curled his lips back. ‘And if not, fuck him too. Back to the mud, Brack.’ He knelt, not having to try too hard to look in pain since his kneecap felt like it was going to pop off, clawed up a fistful of damp black soil and shook it out again over the rest.
    ‘Back to the mud,’ muttered Yon.
    ‘Back to the mud,’ came Wonderful’s echo.
    ‘Looking on the sunny side,’ said Whirrun, ‘it’s where we’re all headed, one way or another. No?’ He looked about as though expecting that to lift spirits, and when it didn’t, shrugged and turned away.
    ‘Old Brack’s all done.’ Scorry squatted by the grave, one hand on thewet ground, brow furrowed like at a puzzle he couldn’t work out. ‘Can’t believe it. Good words, though, Chief.’
    ‘You reckon?’ Craw winced as he stood, slapping the dirt from his hands. ‘I’m not sure how many more o’ these I can stand.’
    ‘Aye,’ murmured Scorry.
    ‘I guess those are the times.’

Opening Remarks

    ‘G et up.’
    Beck shoved the foot away, scowling. He didn’t care for a boot in the ribs at any time, but ’specially not from Reft, and ’specially not when it felt like he only just got off to sleep. He’d lain awake in the darkness a long time, thinking on Caul Shivers stabbing that man, turning it over and over as he twisted about under his blanket. Not able to get comfortable. Not with his blanket or with the thought of that little knife poking away. ‘What?’
    ‘The Union are coming, that’s what.’
    Beck tore his blanket back and strode across the garret room, ducking under the low beam, sleep and anger forgotten both at once. He kicked the creaking door of the big cupboard closed, shouldered Brait and Stodder out of the way and stared through one of the narrow windows.
    He’d half-expected to see men slaughtering each other outside in the lanes of Osrung, blood flying and flags waving and songs being sung right under his window. But the town was quiet at a first glance. Weren’t much beyond dawn and the rain was flitting down, drawing a greasy haze over the huddled buildings.
    Maybe forty strides away across a cobbled square the brown river was churning past, swollen with rain off the fells. The bridge didn’t look much for all the fuss being made of it – a worn stone span barely wide enough for two riders to pass each other. A mill house stood on its right, a row of low houses on its left, shutters open with a few nervy faces at the windows, most looking off to the south, just like Beck. Beyond the bridge a rutted lane led between wattle shacks and up to the fence on the south side of town. He thought he could see men moving there on the walkways, dim through the drizzle. Maybe a couple with flatbows already shooting.
    While he was looking, men started hurrying from an alley and into the square below, forming up a shield wall at the north end of the bridge while a man in a fine cloak bellowed at ’em. Carls to the front, ready to lock their painted shields together. Thralls behind, spears ready to bring down.
    There was a battle on the way, all right.
    ‘You should’ve told me sooner,’ he snapped, hurrying back to his blanket and dragging on his boots.
    ‘Didn’t know sooner,’ said Reft.
    ‘Here.’ Colving offered Beck a hunk of black bread, his eyes scared circles in his chubby face.
    Even the thought of eating made Beck feel sick. He snatched up his sword, then realised he’d nowhere to take it to. Weren’t like he had a place at the fence, or in the shield wall, or anywhere else in particular. He looked towards the stairs, then towards the