Joe Abercrombie - The Blade Itself

“They’re just sitting there,” he whispered when he got back to the others. “Just sitting. No guard, no nothing.”

“Just sitting?” asked Forley.

“Aye. Five of ’em. Sitting and laughing. I don’t like it.”

“I don’t like it neither,” said Threetrees, “but I like what I saw at that farm still less.”

“Weapons,” hissed Dow. “Weapons, it has to be.”

For once, Tul agreed with him. “Weapons, chief. Let’s give ’em a lesson.”

Not even Forley spoke up for staying out of a fight this time, but Threetrees thought it out for a bit still, taking his moment, not to be hurried. Then he nodded. “Weapons it is.”

You won’t see Black Dow in the dark, not if he don’t want to be seen. You won’t hear him neither, but the Dogman knew he was there as he crept down through the trees. You fight with a man for long enough, you get an understanding. You learn how he thinks and you come to think the same way. Dow was there.

The Dogman had his task. He could see the outline of the one on the far right, his back a black shape against the fire. Dogman didn’t spare too much thought for the others yet. He spared no thought for anything but his task. Once you choose to go, or your chief chooses for you, you go all the way, and never look back ’til the task’s done. The time you spend thinking is the time you’ll get killed in. Logen taught him that and he’d taken it right to heart. That’s the way it has to be.

Dogman crept closer, and closer still, feeling the warmth of the fire on his face, feeling the hard metal of the knife in his hand. By the dead he needed to piss, as always. The task wasn’t but a stride away now. The boy was facing him—if he’d have looked up fast from his meat he’d have seen the Dogman coming, but he was too busy eating.

“Gurgh!” shouted one of the others. That meant Dow’d got to him, and that meant he was finished. Dogman leaped forward and stabbed his task in the side of the neck. He reared up for a moment, clutching at his cut throat, took a stumble forward and fell over. One of the others jumped up, dropping his half-chewed leg of mutton on the ground, then an arrow stuck him through the chest. Grim, out by the river. He looked surprised a minute, then he sank down on his knees, face twisted up with pain.

That left but two, and the boy was still sitting there, staring at the Dogman, mouth half open with a bit of meat hanging out of it. The last of them was stood up, breathing quick, with a long knife in his hand. He must have had it out for eating with.

“Drop the blade!” bellowed Threetrees. The Dogman saw the old boy now, striding towards them, the firelight catching the metal rim of his big round shield. The man chewed on his lip, eyes flicking from Dogman to Dow as they moved slowly to either side of him. Now he saw the Thunderhead, looming out of the darkness in the trees, seeming too big to be a man, his great huge sword glinting over his shoulder. That was enough for him. He threw his knife down in the dirt.

Dow jumped forward, grabbed his wrists and tied them tight behind him, then shoved him down on his knees beside the fire. The Dogman did the same with the boy, his teeth clenched tight, not saying a word. The whole thing was done in an instant, quiet and cold like Threetrees said. There was blood on Dogman’s hands, but that was the work and couldn’t be helped. The others were making their way over now. Grim came sloshing through the river, throwing his bow across his shoulder. He gave the one he shot a kick as he came past, but the body didn’t move.

“Dead,” said Grim. Forley was at the back, peering at the two prisoners. Dow was staring at the one he’d tied, staring at him hard.

“I know this one ’ere,” he said, sounding quite pleased about it too. “Groa the Mire, ain’t it? What a chance! You’ve been gnawing at the back of my mind for some time.”

The Mire scowled down at the ground. A cruel-looking sort, the Dogman thought, the type that might hang farmers, if there was one. “Aye, I’m the Mire. No need to ask your names! When they find you’ve killed some o’ the King’s collectors you’ll be dead men all!”

“Black Dow, they call me.”

The Mire’s head came up, his mouth wide open. “Oh fuck,” he whispered.

The boy kneeling next to him stared round with big eyes. “Black Dow? You what? Not the same Black Dow as… oh fuck.”

Dow nodded slowly, with that nasty smile spreading across his face, that killing smile. “Groa the Mire. You’ve all kind of work to pay for. I’ve had you in my mind, and now you’re in my eye.” He patted him on the cheek. “And in my hand too. What a happy chance.”

The Mire snatched his face away, as far as he could, trussed up like he was. “I thought you were in hell, Black Dow, you bastard!”

“So did I, but I was only north o’ the mountains. We’ve questions for you, Mire, before you get what’s due. Who’s this king? What is it you’re collecting for him?”

“Fuck your questions!”

Threetrees hit him on the side of his head, hard, where he couldn’t see it coming. When he turned round to look, Dow cracked him on the other side. Back and forth his head went, till he was soft enough to talk.

“What’s the fight?” asked Threetrees.

“We ain’t fighting!” spat the Mire through his broken teeth. “You might as well be dead, you bastards! You don’t know what’s happened, do yer?” Dogman frowned. He didn’t like the sound of this. Sounded like things had changed while they were gone, and he’d never yet seen a change for the better.

“I’ll do the questions here,” said Threetrees. “You just keep your tiny mind on the answers to ’em. Who’s still fighting? Who won’t kneel to Bethod?”

The Mire laughed, even tied up like he was. “There’s no one left! The fighting’s over! Bethod’s King now. King of all the North! Everyone kneels to him—”

“Not us,” rumbled Tul Duru, leaning down. “What about Old Man Yawl?”

“Dead!”

“What about Sything, or Rattleneck?”

“Dead and dead, you stupid fucks! The only fighting now’s down south! Bethod’s gone to war with the Union! Aye! And we’re giving ’em a beating too!”

The Dogman wasn’t sure whether to believe it. King? There’d never been a king in the North before. There’d never been a need for one, and Bethod was the last one he’d have chosen. And making war on the Union? That was a fool’s errand, surely. There were always more southerners.

“If there’s no fighting here,” asked the Dogman, “what you killing for?”

“Fuck yourself!”

Tul slapped him in the face, hard, and he fell on his back. Dow put in a kick of his own, then dragged him up straight again.

“What did you kill ’em for?” asked Tul.

“Taxes!” shouted the Mire, with blood trickling out of his nose.

“Taxes?” asked the Dogman. A strange word alright, he barely knew the meaning of it.

“They wouldn’t pay!”

“Taxes for who?” asked Dow.

“For Bethod, who do you think? He took all this land, broke the clans up and took it for his own! The people owe him! And we collect!”

“Taxes, eh? That’s a fucking southern fashion and no mistake! And if they can’t pay?” asked Dogman, feeling sick to his guts. “You hang ’em, do you?”

“If they won’t pay we can do as we please with ’em!”

“As you please?” Tul grabbed him round the neck, squeezing with his great big hand ’til the Mire’s eyes were half popping out. “As you please? Does it please you to hang ’em?”

“Alright, Thunderhead,” said Dow, peeling Tul’s big fingers away, and pushing him gently back. “Alright, big lad, this ain’t for you, to kill a man tied up.” And he patted him on the chest, pulling out his axe. “It’s for work like this you bring along a man like me.”