The Heroes

to one side, only the end of his sharp nose, and the line of his sharp jaw, and his thin mouth showing. ‘Shoglig didn’t say when you’d be going.’ He didn’t move. He didn’t have to. Wonderful looked at Craw, and rolled her eyes towards the starry sky.
    But Hardbread’s lads hadn’t heard it all a hundred times before. ‘ThatWhirrun?’ one muttered to his neighbour. ‘Cracknut Whirrun? That’s him?’
    His neighbour said nothing, just the lump on the front of his throat moving as he swallowed.
    ‘Well, my old arse if I’m fighting my way out o’ this,’ said Hardbread, brightly. ‘Any chance you’d let us clear out?’
    ‘I’ve a mind to insist on it,’ said Craw.
    ‘We can take our gear?’
    ‘I’m not looking to embarrass you. I just want your hill.’
    ‘Or Black Dow does, at any rate.’
    ‘Same difference.’
    ‘Then you’re welcome to it.’ Hardbread slowly got to his feet, wincing as he straightened his legs, no doubt cursed with some sticky joints of his own. ‘Windy as anything up here. Rather be down in Osrung, feet near a fire.’ Craw had to admit he’d a point there. Made him wonder who’d got the better end of the deal. Hardbread sheathed his sword, thoughtful, while his lads gathered their gear. ‘This is right decent o’ you, Craw. You’re a straight edge, just like they say. Nice that men on different sides can still talk things through, in the midst of all this. Decent behaviour … it’s out o’ fashion.’
    ‘Those are the times.’ Craw jerked his head at Scorry and he slipped his knife away from Birthmark’s throat, gave this little bow and held his open hand out towards the fire. Birthmark backed off, rubbing at the new-shaved patch on his stubbly neck, and started rolling up a blanket. Craw hooked his thumbs in his sword-belt and kept his eyes on Hardbread’s crew as they made ready to go, just in case anyone had a mind to play hero.
    Redcrow looked most likely. He’d slung his bow over his shoulder and now he was standing there with a black look, an axe in one white-knuckled fist and a shield on his other arm, a red bird painted on it. If he’d been for killing Craw before, didn’t seem the last few minutes had changed his mind. ‘A few old shits and some fucking woman,’ he snarled. ‘We’re backing down to the likes o’ these without a fight?’
    ‘No, no.’ Hardbread slung his own scarred shield onto his back. ‘I’m backing down, and these fellows here. You’re going to stay, and fight Whirrun of Bligh on your own.’
    ‘I’m what?’ Redcrow frowned at Whirrun, twitchy, and Whirrun looked back, what showed of his face still stony as the Heroes themselves.
    ‘That’s right,’ said Hardbread, ‘since you’re itching for a brawl. Then I’m going to cart your hacked-up corpse back to your mummy and tell her not to worry ’cause this is the way you wanted it. You loved this fucking hill so much you just had to die here.’
    Redcrow’s hand worked nervously around his axe handle. ‘Eh?’
    ‘Or maybe you’d rather come down with the rest of us, blessing the name o’ Curnden Craw for giving us a fair warning and letting us go without any arrows in our arses.’
    ‘Right,’ said Redcrow, and turned away, sullen.
    Hardbread puffed his cheeks at Craw. ‘Young ones these days, eh? Were we ever so stupid?’
    Craw shrugged. ‘More’n likely.’
    ‘Can’t say I felt the need for blood like they seem to, though.’
    Craw shrugged again. ‘Those are the times.’
    ‘True, true, and three times true. We’ll leave you the fire, eh? Come on, boys.’ They made for the south side of the hill, still stowing the last of their gear, and one by one faded into the night between the stones.
    Hardbread’s nephew turned in the gap and gave Craw the fuck yourself finger. ‘We’ll be back here, you sneaking bastards!’ His uncle cuffed him across the top of his scratty head. ‘Ow! What?’
    ‘Some respect.’
    ‘Ain’t we fighting a war?’
    Hardbread cuffed him again and made him squeal. ‘No reason to be rude, you little shit.’
    Craw stood there as the lad’s complaints faded into the wind beyond the stones, swallowed sour spit, and eased his thumbs out from his belt. His hands were trembling, had to rub ’em together to hide it, pretending he was cold. But it was done, and everyone involved still drawing breath, so he guessed it had worked out as well as anyone could’ve hoped.
    Jolly Yon didn’t agree. He stepped up