The Heroes

window, free hand opening and closing. ‘What do we do?’
    ‘We wait.’ Flood dragged his stiff leg up the steps and into the attic. He’d got his mail on, glistening with drizzle across the shoulders. ‘Reachey’s given us two houses to hold, this and one just across the street. I’ll be in there.’
    ‘You will?’ Beck realised he’d made himself sound scared, like a child asking his mummy if she was really going to leave him in the dark. ‘You know, some o’ these boys could do with a man to look to—’
    ‘That’ll have to be you and Reft. You might not believe it, but the lads in the other house are even greener’n you lot.’
    ‘Right. ’Course.’ Beck had spent the past week chafing at Flood being always around, keeping him back. Now the thought of the old boy going only made him feel more jittery.
    ‘There’ll be you five and five more in this house. Some other lads from the weapontake. For the time being just set tight. Block up the windows downstairs best you can. Who’s got a bow?’
    ‘I have,’ said Beck.
    ‘And me.’ Reft held his up.
    ‘I’ve got my sling,’ said Colving, hopefully.
    ‘You any good with it?’ asked Reft.
    The boy shook his head sadly. ‘Couldn’t use it at a window, anyway.’
    ‘Why bring it up, then?’ snapped Beck, fingering his own bow. His palm was all sweaty.
    Flood walked to the two narrow windows and pointed towards the river. ‘Maybe we’ll hold ’em at the fence, but if not we’re forming up a shield wall at the bridge. If we don’t hold ’em there, well, anyone with a bow start shooting. Careful, though, don’t go hitting any of our boys in the back, eh? Better not to shoot at all than risk killing our own, and when the blood’s up it can get hard to make out the difference. The rest of you downstairs, ready to keep ’em out of the house if they make it across.’ Stodder chewed at his big bottom lip. ‘Don’t worry. They won’t make it across, and even if they do they’ll be in a right mess. Reachey’ll be getting ready to hit back by then, you can bet on that. So if they try to get in, just keep ’em out ’til help gets here.’
    ‘Keep ’em out,’ piped Brait, jabbing happily at nothing with his twig ofa spear. He didn’t look like he could’ve kept a cat out of a chicken coop with that.
    ‘Any questions?’ Beck didn’t feel he had a clue what to do, but it hardly seemed one question would plug the gap, so he kept quiet. ‘Right, then. I’ll check back if I can.’ Flood limped to the stairway and was gone. They were on their own. Beck strode to a window again, thinking it was better’n doing nothing, but naught had changed that he could see.
    ‘They over the fence yet?’ Brait was up on tiptoe, trying to look over Beck’s shoulder. He sounded all excited, eyes bright like a boy on his birthday, waiting to see what his present might be. He sounded a little bit like Beck always thought he’d feel facing battle. But he didn’t feel that way. He felt sick and hot in spite of the damp breeze on his face.
    ‘No. And ain’t you supposed to be downstairs?’
    ‘Not ’til they come, I’m not. Don’t get to see this every day, do you?’
    Beck brushed him off with an elbow. ‘Just get out of it! Your stink’s making me sick!’
    ‘All right, all right.’ Brait shambled away, looking hurt, but Beck couldn’t bring up much sympathy. It was the best he could do not to bring up the breakfast he hadn’t had.
    Reft was stood at the other window, bow over his shoulder. ‘Thought you’d be happy. Looks like you’ll get your chance to be a hero.’
    ‘I am happy,’ snapped Beck. And not shitting himself at all.
    Meed had established his headquarters in the inn’s common hall, which by the standards of the North was a palatial space, double height and with a gallery at first-floor level. Overnight it had been decorated like a palace too with gaudy hangings, inlaid cupboards, gilded candlesticks and all the pompous trappings one would expect in a lord governor’s own residence, presumably carted half way across the North at monstrous expense. A pair of violinists had set up in the corner and were grinning smugly at each other as they sawed out jaunty chamber music. Three huge oil paintings had even been hoisted into position by Meed’s industrious servants: two renderings of great battles from the Union’s history and, incredibly, a portrait of Meed himself, glowering from on high in antique armour.