Abercrombie, Joe - The Heroes

‘Curnden Craw’s there with his dozen,’ said Splitfoot.

‘Safe hands,’ muttered Calder. He almost wished he was down at the Heroes with Curnden Craw, rather than here with these bastards. No power, maybe, but a lot more laughs.

‘Had word from him an hour or two back, as it goes,’ said Ironhead. ‘He ran into some o’ the Dogman’s scouts up there and seen ’em off.’

Dow looked down at the ground for a moment, rubbing at his lips with one fingertip. ‘Shivers?’

‘Chief?’ Whispered so soft it was hardly more than a breath.

‘Ride down to the Heroes and tell Craw I want that hill held on to. Just might be one or other o’ these Union bastards try to come through that way. Cross the river at Osrung, maybe.’

‘Good ground for a fight,’ said Tenways.

Shivers paused a moment. Long enough for Calder to see he wasn’t happy playing messenger boy. Calder gave him the barest look, just a reminder of what was said in the hallway at Carleon. Just to give whatever seeds were planted a little water.

‘Right y’are, Chief.’ And Shivers slid out through the doorway.

Golden gave a shiver of his own. ‘That one gives me the worries.’

Dow only grinned the wider. ‘That’s the point of him. Ironhead?’

‘Chief.’

‘You’re leading off down the Yaws Road. Point o’ the spear.’

‘We’ll be in Yaws evening tomorrow.’

‘Make it sooner.’ That got a deeper frown from Ironhead and a matching grin from Golden. It was as if the two sat on a pair of scales. You couldn’t nudge one down without hoisting the other up. ‘Golden, you take the Brottun Road and join up with Reachey. Get him on the way soon as his weapontake’s done, that old boy sometimes needs the spur.’

‘Aye, Chief.’

‘Tenways, bring your foragers in and get your lot ready to move, you’ll be bringing up the back with me.’

‘Done.’

‘And all of you march your lads hard, but keep your eyes open. Be nice to give the Southerners a shock and not the other way around.’ Dow showed even more of his teeth. ‘If your blades ain’t sharpened already, I reckon now’s the time.’

‘Aye,’ the three of them chimed in, competing to sound the most bloodthirsty.

‘Oh, aye,’ said Calder on the end, and giving his best smirk to go with it. He might not be much with a sword, but there were few men in the North who could handle a smirk better. It was wasted this time, though. Splitfoot was leaning down to mutter something in Dow’s ear.

The Protector of the North sat back frowning. ‘Send him in, then!’

The doors were hauled open, wind sighing through and whisking loose straw across the stable floor. Calder squinted into the evening outside. Had to be some trick of the fading light, because the figure in the doorway seemed to fill it almost to the beam above. Then he took the step up. Then he straightened. It was quite the entrance, the room silent as he strode slowly to its centre except for the floor groaning under his every step. But then it’s easy to make the big entrance when you’re the size of a cliff. You just walk in and stand there.

‘I am Stranger-Come-Knocking.’

Calder knew the name. Stranger-Come-Knocking called himself Chief of a Hundred Tribes, called everything east of the Crinna his land and all the people who lived on it his property. Calder had heard he was a giant but hadn’t taken it too seriously. The North was full of swollen men with swollen opinions of themselves and even more swollen reputations. More often than not you found the man a good deal smaller than the name. So this came as a bit of a shock.

When you said the word ‘giant’, Stranger-Come-Knocking was pretty much what you thought of, stepped straight out from the age of heroes and into this petty latter time. He towered over Dow and his mighty War Chiefs, head among the rafters, black hair streaked with grey hanging around his craggy, bearded face. Glama Golden looked a gaudy dwarf beside him, and Splitfoot and his Carls a set of toy soldiers.

‘By the dead,’ Calder whispered under his breath. ‘That is a big one.’

But Black Dow showed no awe. He sprawled in Skarling’s Chair easily as ever, one boot still tapping the straw, killer’s hands still dangling, wolf grin still curled around his face. ‘Wondered when you’d … come knocking. Didn’t think you’d come all this way your own self, though.’

‘An alliance should be sealed face to face, man to man, iron to iron and blood to blood.’ Calder had been expecting the giant to roar every word like the monsters in children’s stories, but he had a soft sort of voice. Slow, as if he was puzzling out every word.

‘The personal touch,’ said Dow. ‘I’m all for it. We’ve a deal, then?’

‘We have.’ Stranger-Come-Knocking spread one massive hand, put the web between thumb and forefinger in his mouth and bit into it, held it up, blood starting to seep from the marks.

Dow slid his palm down his sword, leaving the edge gleaming red. Then he was out of Skarling’s Chair in a flash and caught the giant’s hand with his own. The two men stood there as blood streaked their forearms and started to drip from their elbows. Calder felt a little fear and a lot of contempt at the level of manliness on display.

‘Right y’are.’ Dow let go of the giant’s hand and slowly sat back in Skarling’s Chair, leaving a bloody palm-print on one arm. ‘Reckon you can bring your men over the Crinna.’

‘I already did.’

Golden and Ironhead exchanged a glance, not much caring for the idea of a lot of savages crossing the Crinna and, presumably, their land. Dow narrowed his eyes. ‘Did you, indeed?’

‘On this side of the water they can fight the Southerners.’ Stranger-Come-Knocking looked slowly about the stable, fixing each man with his black eyes. ‘I came to fight !’ He roared the last word, echoes ringing from the roof. A ripple of fury passed through him from his feet to his head, making his fists clench, and his chest swell, and his monstrous shoulders rise, seeming in that moment more outsize than ever.

Calder found himself wondering what fighting this bastard would feel like. How the hell would you stop him, once he was moving? Just the sheer weight of meat. What weapon would put him down? He reckoned everyone else in the room was thinking the same thing, and not much enjoying the experience.

Except Black Dow. ‘Good! That’s what I want you for.’

‘I want to fight the Union.’

‘There’s plenty to go round.’

‘I want to fight Whirrun of Bligh.’

‘Can’t promise you that, he’s on our side and has some odd notions. But I can ask if he’ll give you a bout.’

‘I want to fight the Bloody-Nine.’

The hairs on the back of Calder’s neck prickled. Strange, how that name still weighed heavy, even in company like this, even if the man was eight years dead. Dow wasn’t grinning any more.

‘You missed your chance. Ninefingers is back in the mud.’

‘I hear he is alive, and standing with the Union.’

‘You hear wrong.’

‘I hear he is alive, and I will kill him.’

‘Will you now?’

‘I am the greatest warrior in the Circle of the World.’ Stranger-Come-Knocking didn’t boast it, puffed up and pouting as Glama Golden might have. He didn’t threaten it, fists clenched and glowering as Cairm Ironhead might have. He stated the fact.

Dow scratched absently at the scar where his ear used to be. ‘This is the North. Lot of hard men about. Couple of ’em in this room. So that’s quite a claim you’re making.’

Stranger-Come-Knocking unhooked his great fur cloak and shrugged it off, stood there stripped to the waist like a man ready to wrestle. Scars had always been almost as popular in the North as blades. Every man who reckoned himself a man had to have a couple of both. But Stranger-Come-Knocking’s great expanse of body, sinew-knotted like an ancient tree, was almost more scar than skin. He was ripped, pocked, gouged with wounds, enough to make a score of champions proud.

‘At Yeweald I fought the Dog Tribe and was pierced with seven arrows.’ He pointed out some pink blobs scattered across his ribs with his club of a forefinger. ‘But I fought on, and made a hill of their dead, and made their land my land, and their women and children my people.’

Dow sighed, as if he had a half-naked giant at most of his war meetings and was getting tired of it. ‘Maybe it’s time to think about a shield.’

‘They are for cowards to hide behind. My wounds tell the story of my strength.’ The giant jerked his thumb at a star-shaped mass that covered one shoulder, and his back, and half his left arm with flesh lumped and mottled as oak-bark. ‘The dreaded witch Vanian sprayed me with a liquid fire, and I carried her into the lake and drowned her while I burned.’

Dow picked a fingernail. ‘Reckon I’d have tried to put it out first.’

The giant shrugged, the pink burn across his shoulder creasing like a ploughed field. ‘It went out when she died.’ He pointed to a ragged pink mark that left a bald streak through the pelt of black hair on his chest and appeared to have taken a nipple off. ‘The brothers Smirtu and Weorc challenged me to single combat. They said because they grew together in one womb they counted as one man.’

Dow snorted. ‘You fell for that?’

‘I do not look for reasons not to fight. I split Smirtu in half with an axe, then crushed his brother’s skull in my hand.’ The giant slowly closed one massive fist and squeezed the fingers white, muscle squirming in his arm like a giant sausage being stuffed.

‘Messy,’ said Dow.

‘In my country, men are impressed by messy deaths.’

‘Honestly, they’re much the same here. Tell you what – anyone I call my enemy you can kill when you please. Anyone I call my friend … let me know before you give ’em a messy death. I’d hate for you to slaughter Prince Calder by accident.’

Stranger-Come-Knocking looked around. ‘You are Calder?’

That awkward moment wondering whether to deny it. ‘I am.’

‘Bethod’s second son?’

‘The same.’

He slowly nodded his monstrous head, long hair swaying. ‘Bethod was a great man.’

‘A great man for getting other men to fight for him.’ Tenways sucked his rotten teeth and spat one more time. ‘Not much of a fighter himself.’

The giant’s voice had suddenly softened again. ‘Why is everyone so bloodthirsty this side of the Crinna? There is more to life than fighting.’ He leaned down and dragged up his cloak between two fingers. ‘I will be at the place agreed upon, Black Dow. Unless … any of the little men wish to wrestle?’ Golden, and Ironhead, and Tenways all took their turns to peer off into the furthest corners of the stable.

Calder was used to being scared out of his wits, though, and met the giant’s eye with a smile. ‘I would, but I make a point of never stripping unless there are women present. Which is a shame, actually, because I have an almighty spot on my back that I think would quite impress everyone.’

‘Oh, I cannot wrestle with you, son of Bethod.’ The giant might even have had a knowing smirk of his own as he turned away. ‘You are made for other things.’ And he threw his cloak over his scarred shoulder and stooped under the high lintel, the Carls swinging the doors shut on the gust of wind that blew in behind him.

‘He seems a good sort,’ said Calder, brightly. ‘Nice of him not to show off the scars on his cock.’

‘Fucking savages!’ cursed Tenways, which was rich coming from him.