The Heroes

they were idiots. Idiots can be just as vengeful as anyone else, though, if not more so.
    The shutters of the back window were open. He could slip out and off into the wood. But if they were serious they’d have thought of that, and with his knees he’d be outrunning no one. Better to come out the front way and look ’em in the eye. The way he would’ve done when he was young. He sidled up, swallowing as he drew his sword. Turned the knob, wedged the blade into the gap and gently levered the door open while he peered around the frame.
    He’d go out the front way, but he wasn’t painting a target on his shirt.
    He counted eight at a glance, spread out in a crescent on the damp patch of dirt in front of his house. A couple had torches, light catching mail and helm and spear’s tip and making ’em twinkle in the damp twilight. Carls, and battle-toughened by their looks, though there weren’t many men left in the North you couldn’t say that about. They all had plenty of weapons, but no blades drawn that he could see. That gave him some measure of comfort.
    ‘That you, Craw?’ He got a big measure more when he saw who was in charge, standing closest to the house with palms up.
    ‘That it is.’ Craw let his sword point drop and poked his head out a bit further. ‘Here’s a surprise.’
    ‘Pleasant one, I hope.’
    ‘I guess you’ll tell me. What’re you after, Hardbread?’
    ‘Can I come in?’
    Craw sniffed. ‘You can. Your crew might have to enjoy the night air for now.’
    ‘They’re used to it.’ And Hardbread ambled up to the house alone. Helooked prosperous. Beard trimmed back. New mail. Silver on the hilt of his sword. He climbed the steps and ducked past Craw, strolled to the centre of the one room, which didn’t take long to get to, and cast an appraising eye around. Took in Craw’s pallet on the shelf, his workbench and his tools, the half-finished chair, the broken wood and the shavings scattering the boards. ‘This what retirement looks like?’ he asked.
    ‘No, I’ve a fucking palace out back. Why you here?’
    Hardbread took a breath. ‘Because mighty Scale Ironhand, King of the Northmen, has gone to war with Glama Golden.’
    Craw snorted. ‘Black Calder has, you mean. Why?’
    ‘Golden killed Caul Reachey.’
    ‘Reachey’s dead?’
    ‘Poisoned. And Golden did the deed.’
    Craw narrowed his eyes. ‘That a fact?’
    ‘Calder says it is, so Scale says it is, so it’s close to a fact as anyone’s going to get. All the North’s lining up behind Bethod’s sons, and I’ve come to see if you want to line up too.’
    ‘Since when did you fight for Calder and Scale?’
    ‘Since the Dogman hung up his sword and stopped paying staples.’
    Craw frowned at him. ‘Calder would never take me.’
    ‘It was Calder sent me. He’s got Pale-as-Snow, and Cairm Ironhead, and your old friend Wonderful as his War Chiefs.’
    ‘Wonderful?’
    ‘Canny woman, that one. But Calder’s lacking a Name to stand Second and lead his own Carls. He’s in need of a straight edge, apparently.’ Hardbread cocked a brow at the chair. ‘So I don’t reckon he’ll be hiring you as a carpenter.’
    Craw stood there, trying to get his head around it. Offered a place, and a high one. Back among folk he understood, and admired him. Back to the black business, and trying to juggle the right thing, and finding words over graves.
    ‘Sorry to bring you all this way for nothing, Hardbread, but the answer’s no. Pass my apologies on to Calder. My apologies for this and … for whatever else. But tell him I’m done. Tell him I’m retired.’
    Hardbread gave a sigh. ‘All right. It’s a shame, but I’ll pass it on.’ He paused in the doorway, looking back. ‘Look after yourself, eh, Craw? Ain’t many of us left know the difference between the right thing and the wrong.’
    ‘What difference?’
    Hardbread snorted. ‘Aye. Look after yourself, anyway.’ And he stomped down the steps and out into the gathering dark.
    Craw looked after him for a moment, wondering whether he was happy the thumping of his heart was softening or sad. Weighing his sword in his hand, remembering how it felt to hold it. Different from a hammer, thatwas sure. He remembered Threetrees giving it to him. The pride he’d felt, like a fire in him. Smiled in spite of himself to remember what he used to be. How prickly and wild and hungry for glory, not a straight edge on him anywhere.
    He looked around at that one room, and