The Heroes

trampled mud between him and a table, an awning of dripping canvas over it to keep the rain off. An old greybeard sat there waiting for him, and looking somewhat sour about it. He’d lost an arm, coat-sleeve folded up and stitched across his chest. In the other hand he’d got a pen. Seemed they were taking each man’s name and marking it down in a big book. New ways of doing things, with writing and what have you. Beck didn’t reckon his father would’ve cared much for that, and neither did he. What was the purpose to fighting the Southerners if you took their ways yourselves? He trudged up through the slop, frowning.
    ‘Name?’
    ‘My name?’
    ‘Who the bloody hell else’s?’
    ‘Beck.’
    The greybeard scratched it on his paper. ‘From?’
    ‘A farm just up the valley there.’
    ‘Age?’
    ‘Seventeen year.’
    The man frowned up at him. ‘And a big one too. You’re a few summers late, lad. Where you been at?’
    ‘Helping my mother on the farm.’ Someone behind snorted and Beck whipped around to give him a proper glare. Brait’s sorry little grin wilted, and he looked down at his knackered shoes. ‘She’s two little ’uns to care for, so I stayed to help her. That’s man’s work too.’
    ‘Guess you’re here now, anyway.’
    ‘That’s right.’
    ‘Your father’s name?’
    ‘Shama Heartless.’
    His head jerked right back up at that. ‘Don’t poke me, lad!’
    ‘I won’t, old man. Shama Heartless was my father. This here is his sword.’ And Beck drew it, metal hissing, the weight in his hand putting heart right back in him, and stood it point-down on the table.
    The one-armed old man looked it up and down for a moment, gold glinting with the sunset, mirror-brightness of good steel. ‘Well, there’s a turn-up. Let’s hope you’re forged from the same iron as your father.’
    ‘I am.’
    ‘Reckon we’ll see. Here’s your first staple, lad.’ And he pressed a tiny silver coin into Beck’s palm and took up his pen again. ‘Next man.’
    And there you go, farmer no more. Joined up with Caul Reachey and ready to fight for Black Dow against the Union. Beck sheathed his sword and stood frowning in the thickening rain, in the gathering darkness. A girl with red hair turned brown by the damp was pouring out grog for those who’d given their names and Beck took his own measure and threw it burning down his gullet. He tossed the cup aside, watching Reft, andColving, and Stodder give their answers, thinking how it didn’t matter a shit what these fools thought. He’d win his name. He’d show ’em who was the coward.
    And who was the hero.

Reachey

    ‘I f it ain’t my daughter’s husband!’ called out Reachey, firelight shining on a gap-toothed grin. ‘No need to tiptoe, lad.’
    ‘Muddy going,’ said Calder.
    ‘And you always did like to keep your boots clean.’
    ‘Styrian leather, shipped in from Talins.’ And he planted one on a stone by the fire so Reachey’s old Named Men could get a better look.
    ‘Shipping in boots,’ grumbled Reachey, as if bemoaning the loss of all that was good in the world. ‘By the dead. How did a clever girl like my daughter fall for a tailor’s dummy like you?’
    ‘How did a butcher’s block like you father such a beauty as my wife?’
    Reachey grinned, so his men did too, the rustling flames picking out every crease and crinkle on their leathery faces. ‘I’ve always wondered at it myself. Less’n you, though. I knew her mother.’ A couple of the older lads grunted, faraway looks in their eyes. ‘And I was quite the beauty myself before life’s buffets wore down my looks.’ The self-same older lads chuckled. Old men’s jokes, all about how fine things used to be.
    ‘Buffets,’ said one, shaking his head.
    ‘Could I have a word?’ asked Calder.
    ‘Anything for my son. Lads.’ Reachey’s closest stood, some with evident effort, and made their way grunting off into the dark. Calder picked a spot by the fire and squatted down, hands out to the flames.
    ‘You want the pipe?’ Reachey offered it, smoke curling from the bowl.
    ‘No, thanks.’ Calder had to keep a straight head, even among supposed friends. It was a damn narrow path he was always treading these days, and he couldn’t afford to weave about. There was a long drop on both sides of it and nothing soft at the bottom.
    Reachey took a suck himself, sent up a couple of little brown smoke rings and watched them drift apart. ‘How’s my