The Heroes

sheathed beside the saddle in easy reach. The sword that had been Black Dow’s. The sword that had been the Bloody-Nine’s. Shivers raised one brow, asking the question.
    The blood was surging behind Calder’s eyes. Now was the time. He could have everything he wanted.
    Bayaz had been right. You don’t get to be a king without making some sacrifices.
    Calder took an endless breath in, and held it. Now.
    And he gently shook his head.
    Shivers’ hand slid away. His horse dropped ever so slowly back.
    ‘Maybe I’m the better brother,’ said Calder, ‘but you’re the elder.’ He brought his horse up close, and he pulled their father’s chain from his pocket and slipped it over Scale’s neck, arranged it carefully across his shoulders. Patted him on the back and left his hand there, wondering when he got to love this stupid bastard. When he got to love anyone besides himself. He lowered his head. ‘Let me be the first to bow before the new King of the Northmen.’
    Scale blinked down at the diamond on his grubby shirt. ‘Never thought things would end up this way.’
    Neither had Calder. But he found he was glad they had. ‘End?’ He smirked across at his brother. ‘This is the beginning.’

Retired

    T he house wasn’t by the water. It didn’t have a porch. It did have a bench outside with a view of the valley, but when he sat on it of an evening with his pipe he didn’t tend to smile, just thought of all the men he’d buried. It leaked somewhat around the western eaves when the rain came down, which it had in quite some measure lately. It had just the one room, and a shelf up a ladder for sleeping on, and when it came to the great divide between sheds and houses, was only just on the right side of the issue. But it was a house, still, with good oak bones and a good stone chimney. And it was his. Dreams don’t just spring up by themselves, they need tending to, and you’ve got to plant that first seed somewhere. Or so Craw told himself.
    ‘Shit!’ Hammer and nail clattered to the boards and he was off around the room, spitting and cursing and shaking his hand about.
    Working wood was a tough way to earn a living. He might not have been chewing his nails so much, but he’d taken to hammering the bastards into his fingers instead. The sad fact was, now the wounds all over Craw’s hands had forced him to face it, he wasn’t much of a carpenter. In his dreams of retirement he’d always seen himself crafting things of beauty. Probably while light streamed in through coloured windows and sawdust went up in artful puffs. Gables carved with gilded dragon heads, so lifelike they’d be the wonder of the North, folk flocking from miles around to get a look. But it turned out wood was just as full of split, and warp, and splinters as people were.
    ‘Bloody hell.’ Rubbing the life back into his thumb, nail already black from where he caught it yesterday.
    They smiled at him in the village, brought him odd jobs, but he reckoned more’n one of the farmers was a good stretch better with a hammer than he was. Certainly they’d got that new barn up without calling on his skills and he had to admit it was likely a finer building for it. He’d started to think they wanted him in the valley more for his sword than his saw. While the war was on, the North’s ready supply of scum had the Southerners to kill and rob. Now they just had their own kind, and were taking every chance at it. A Named Man to hand was no bad thing.Those were the times. Those were still the times, and maybe they always would be.
    He squatted beside the stricken chair, latest casualty in his war against furniture. He’d split the joint he’d spent the last hour chiselling out and now the new leg stuck at an angle, an ugly gouge where he’d been hammering. Served him right for working as the light was going, but if he didn’t get this done tonight he’d—
    ‘Craw!’
    His head jerked up. A man’s voice, deep and rough.
    ‘You in there, Craw?’
    His skin went cold all over. Might be he’d played the straight edge most of his life, but you don’t walk free of the black business without some scores however you play it.
    He sprang up, or as close to springing as he could get these days, snatched his sword from the bracket above the door, fumbled it and nearly dropped it on his head, hissing more curses. If it was someone come to kill him it didn’t seem likely they’d have given him a warning by calling his name. Not unless