The Heroes

think fighting on them was more the point.’
    ‘That’s good ground for horses.’ Pale-as-Snow nodded at the sweep ofdark crops to the south. ‘Nice and flat. Maybe he thinks he’ll ride all over us tomorrow.’
    ‘Maybe he will.’ Calder pursed his lips, thinking about it. Thinking about the order crumpled in his shirt pocket.
My men and I are giving our all.
‘Reckless. Arrogant. Vain.’ Roughly what men said about Calder, as it went. Which maybe gave him a little insight into his opponent. His eyes shifted back to those idiot flags, thrust out front, lit up like a dance on midsummer eve. His mouth found that familiar smirk, and stayed there. ‘I want you to get your best men together. No more than a few score. Enough to keep together and work quickly at night.’
    ‘What for?’
    ‘We’re not going to beat the Union moping back here.’ He kicked the bit of loose stone from the top of the wall. ‘And I don’t think some farmer’s boundary mark is going to keep them out either, do you?’
    Pale-as-Snow showed his teeth. ‘Now you’re reminding me of your father again. What about the rest of the lads?’
    Calder hopped down from the wall. ‘Get White-Eye to round them up. They’ve got some digging to do.’

‘I’m not sure how much violence and
    butchery the readers will stand’
    Robert E. Howard

The Standard Issue

    T he light came and went as the clouds tore across the sky, showing a glimpse of the big full moon then hiding it away, like a clever whore might show a glimpse of tit once in a while, just to keep the punters eager. By the dead, Calder wished he was with a clever whore now, rather than crouching in the middle of a damp barley-field, peering through the thrashing stalks in the vain hope of seeing a whole pile of night-dark nothing. It was a sad fact, or perhaps a happy one, that he was a man better suited to brothels than battlefields.
    Pale-as-Snow was rather the reverse. The only part of him that had moved in an hour or more was his jaw, slowly shifting as he ground a lump of chagga down to mush. His flinty calm only made Calder more jumpy. Everything did. The scraping of shovels dug at his nerves behind them, sounding just a few strides distant one moment then swallowed up by the wind the next. The same wind that was whipping Calder’s hair in his face, blasting his eyes with grit and cutting through his clothes to the bone.
    ‘Shit on this wind,’ he muttered.
    ‘Wind’s a good thing,’ grunted Pale-as-Snow. ‘Masks the sound. And if you’re chill, brought up to the North, think how they feel over there, used to sunnier climes. All in our favour.’ Good points, maybe, and Calder was annoyed he hadn’t thought of them, but they didn’t make him feel any warmer. He clutched his cloak tight at his chest, other hand wedged into his armpit, and pressed one eye shut.
    ‘I expected war to be terrifying but I never thought it’d be so bloody boring.’
    ‘Patience.’ Pale-as-Snow turned his head, softly spat and licked the juice from his bottom lip. ‘Patience is as fearsome a weapon as rage. More so, in fact, ’cause fewer men have it.’
    ‘Chief.’ Calder spun about, fumbling for his sword hilt. A man had slithered from the barley beside them, mud smeared on his face, eyes standing out strangely white in the midst of it. One of theirs. Calder wondered if he should’ve smeared some mud on his face too. It made a man look like he knew his business. He waited for Pale-as-Snow to answer for a while. Then he realised he was the Chief.
    ‘Oh, right.’ Letting go of his sword and pretending he hadn’t been surprised at all. ‘What?’
    ‘We’re in the trenches,’ whispered the newcomer. ‘Sent a few Union boys back to the mud.’
    ‘They seem ready?’ asked Pale-as-Snow, who hadn’t so much as looked round.
    ‘Shit, no.’ The man’s grin was a pale curve in his blacked-out face. ‘Most of ’em were sleeping.’
    ‘Best time to kill a man.’ Though Calder had to wonder whether the dead would agree. The old warrior held out one hand. ‘Shall we?’
    ‘We shall.’ Calder winced as he set off crawling through the barley. It was far sharper, rougher, more painful stuff to sneak through than you could ever have expected. It didn’t take long for his hands to chafe raw, and it hardly helped that he knew he was heading towards the enemy. He was a man better suited to the opposite direction. ‘Bloody barley.’ When he took his father’s chain back