The Heroes

cracked it, arm throbbing too. Dodgy knee and ankle doing their usual whining, but he didn’t seem hurt. Not really. Not sure how he’d come out of that not hurt. The hot glow of battle was fading fast, his aching legs shaky as a new-born calf’s, his sight swimming. Like he’d borrowed all the strength he’d used and had to pay it back with interest. He took a few steps towards the burned-out fire and the dead packhorse. No sign of the saddle horses. Run off or dead. He dropped down on his arse in the middle of the Heroes.
    ‘You all right?’ Whirrun was leaning over him, great long sword held below the crosspiece in one fist, blade all spattered and dashed. Blooded, the way it had to be. Once the Father of Swords is drawn, it has to be blooded. ‘You all right?’
    ‘I reckon.’ Craw’s fingers were so tight around the strap of his shield he could hardly remember how to make them unclench. Finally forced ’em open, let the shield drop into the grass, its face showing a few fresh gouges to go with a hundred old wounds, a new dent in the dull boss.
    Wonderful’s stubbly hair was matted with blood. ‘What happened?’ Rubbing her eyes on the back of her arm. ‘Am I cut?’
    ‘Scratch,’ Scorry said, prodding at her scalp with his thumbs.
    Drofd was kneeling beside her, rocking back and forward, gripping tight to his arm, blood streaked to his fingertips.
    The sun flashed in Craw’s eyes, made his lids flicker. He could hear Yon screaming, over by the stones, roaring after Hardbread and his lads. ‘Come back ’ere, you fuckers! Come on you bastard cowards!’ Couldn’t make no difference. Every man’s a coward. A coward and a hero, depending how things stand. They weren’t coming back. Looked like they’d left eightcorpses behind. They weren’t coming back. Craw prayed to the old dead Gods of this place they weren’t coming back.
    Scorry was singing, soft and low and sad as he took needle and thread from his pouch to start the stitching. You get no happy songs after a battle. The jaunty tunes come beforehand and they usually do some injury to the truth.
    Craw caught himself thinking they’d come out of it well. Very well. Just the one dead. Then he looked at Athroc’s silly-slack face, eyes all crossed, jerkin all ripped up by Redcrow’s axe and turned sloppy red with his insides, and was sick with himself for thinking it. He knew this would stay with him, along with all the others. We all got our weights to heft.
    He lay back in the grass and watched the clouds move, shift. Now one memory, now another. A good leader can’t dwell on the choices he’s made, Threetrees used to tell him, and a good leader can’t help dwelling on ’em.
    He’d done the right thing. Maybe. Or maybe there’s no such thing.

Silence

Y
our August Majesty,
    Lord Bayaz, the First of the Magi, has conveyed to Marshal Kroy your urgent desire that the campaign be brought to a swift conclusion. The marshal has therefore devised a plan to bring Black Dow to a decisive battle with all despatch, and the entire army hums with gainful activity.
    General Jalenhorm’s division leads the way, marching from first light to last and with the vanguard of General Mitterick’s but a few hours behind. One could almost say there is a friendly rivalry between the two to be first to grapple with the enemy. Lord Governor Meed, meanwhile, has been recalled from Ollensand. The three divisions will converge near a town called Osrung, then, united, drive north towards Carleon itself, and victory.
    I accompany General Jalenhorm’s staff, at the very spear-point of the army. We are somewhat hampered by the poor roads and changeable weather, which switches with little warning from sunshine to sharp downpours. The general is not a man to be stopped, however, either by the actions of the skies or the enemy. If we do come into contact with the Northmen I will, of course, observe, and immediately inform your Majesty of the outcome.
    I remain your Majesty’s most faithful and unworthy servant,
    Bremer dan Gorst, Royal Observer of the Northern War

    You could barely have called it dawn. That funeral-grey light before the sun crawls up that has no colour in it. Few faces abroad, and those that were made ghosts. The empty country turned into the land of the dead. Gorst’s favourite time of the day.
One could almost pretend no one will ever talk again.
    He had already been running for the best part of an hour, feet battering the rutted mud.