The Heroes

starving man just saw the roast brought in.
    ‘If they’re set on looking for a fight,’ said Dow, ‘I’d hate not to give ’em one. We got someone down at the Heroes?’
    ‘Curnden Craw’s there with his dozen,’ said Splitfoot.
    ‘Safe hands,’ muttered Calder. He almost wished he was down at the Heroes with Curnden Craw, rather than here with these bastards. No power, maybe, but a lot more laughs.
    ‘Had word from him an hour or two back, as it goes,’ said Ironhead. ‘He ran into some o’ the Dogman’s scouts up there and seen ’em off.’
    Dow looked down at the ground for a moment, rubbing at his lips with one fingertip. ‘Shivers?’
    ‘Chief?’ Whispered so soft it was hardly more than a breath.
    ‘Ride down to the Heroes and tell Craw I want that hill held on to. Just might be one or other o’ these Union bastards try to come through that way. Cross the river at Osrung, maybe.’
    ‘Good ground for a fight,’ said Tenways.
    Shivers paused a moment. Long enough for Calder to see he wasn’t happy playing messenger boy. Calder gave him the barest look, just a reminder of what was said in the hallway at Carleon. Just to give whatever seeds were planted a little water.
    ‘Right y’are, Chief.’ And Shivers slid out through the doorway.
    Golden gave a shiver of his own. ‘That one gives me the worries.’
    Dow only grinned the wider. ‘That’s the point of him. Ironhead?’
    ‘Chief.’
    ‘You’re leading off down the Yaws Road. Point o’ the spear.’
    ‘We’ll be in Yaws evening tomorrow.’
    ‘Make it sooner.’ That got a deeper frown from Ironhead and a matching grin from Golden. It was as if the two sat on a pair of scales. You couldn’t nudge one down without hoisting the other up. ‘Golden, you take the Brottun Road and join up with Reachey. Get him on the way soon as his weapontake’s done, that old boy sometimes needs the spur.’
    ‘Aye, Chief.’
    ‘Tenways, bring your foragers in and get your lot ready to move, you’ll be bringing up the back with me.’
    ‘Done.’
    ‘And all of you march your lads hard, but keep your eyes open. Be nice to give the Southerners a shock and not the other way around.’ Dow showed even more of his teeth. ‘If your blades ain’t sharpened already, I reckon now’s the time.’
    ‘Aye,’ the three of them chimed in, competing to sound the most bloodthirsty.
    ‘Oh, aye,’ said Calder on the end, and giving his best smirk to go with it. He might not be much with a sword, but there were few men in the North who could handle a smirk better. It was wasted this time, though. Splitfoot was leaning down to mutter something in Dow’s ear.
    The Protector of the North sat back frowning. ‘Send him in, then!’
    The doors were hauled open, wind sighing through and whisking loose straw across the stable floor. Calder squinted into the evening outside. Had to be some trick of the fading light, because the figure in the doorway seemed to fill it almost to the beam above. Then he took the step up. Then he straightened. It was quite the entrance, the room silent as he strode slowly to its centre except for the floor groaning under his every step. But then it’s easy to make the big entrance when you’re the size of a cliff. You just walk in and stand there.
    ‘I am Stranger-Come-Knocking.’
    Calder knew the name. Stranger-Come-Knocking called himself Chiefof a Hundred Tribes, called everything east of the Crinna his land and all the people who lived on it his property. Calder had heard he was a giant but hadn’t taken it too seriously. The North was full of swollen men with swollen opinions of themselves and even more swollen reputations. More often than not you found the man a good deal smaller than the name. So this came as a bit of a shock.
    When you said the word ‘giant’, Stranger-Come-Knocking was pretty much what you thought of, stepped straight out from the age of heroes and into this petty latter time. He towered over Dow and his mighty War Chiefs, head among the rafters, black hair streaked with grey hanging around his craggy, bearded face. Glama Golden looked a gaudy dwarf beside him, and Splitfoot and his Carls a set of toy soldiers.
    ‘By the dead,’ Calder whispered under his breath. ‘That is a big one.’
    But Black Dow showed no awe. He sprawled in Skarling’s Chair easily as ever, one boot still tapping the straw, killer’s hands still dangling, wolf grin still curled around his face. ‘Wondered when