Joe Abercrombie - Before They Are Hanged

It was an odd thing. Before he’d fucked her he hadn’t thought about her that way at all. He’d been too concerned with trying to stop her running off, or shooting him, or stabbing one of the others. So busy watching her scowl that he hadn’t seen her face. So busy watching her hands that he’d never noticed the rest of her. Now he couldn’t think about anything else.

Every movement of hers seemed fascinating. He’d catch himself watching her all the time. While they were on the move. While they were sitting down. While she was eating, or drinking, or talking, or spitting. While she was pulling her boots on in the morning or pulling them off at night. To make matters worse, his cock was halfway hard the whole time from watching her out of the corners of his eyes, and imagining her naked. It was getting to be quite an embarrassment.

“What are you looking at?” Logen stopped and gazed up into the sun. Ferro was frowning down at him. He stood and shifted the pack on his back, rubbing at his sore shoulders, wiping a sheen of sweat from his forehead. He could’ve thought up a lie, easily enough. He’d been watching the magnificent mountain peaks. He’d been watching where he put his feet. He’d been checking that her pack was on right. But what would’ve been the point? They both knew well enough what he’d been looking at, and the others had pushed on well out of earshot.

“I’m looking at your arse,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “Sorry, but it’s a good one. No harm looking, is there?”

She opened her mouth angrily but he put his head down and trudged round her before she had the chance to speak, his thumbs hooked under the straps of his pack. When he’d got ten paces or so he looked over his shoulder. She was still standing there, hands on her hips, frowning up at him. He grinned back.

“What are you looking at?” he said.

They stopped for water in the cold fresh morning, on a ledge above a plunging valley. Through spreading trees heavy with red berries growing sideways from the bare rock, Jezal could see white water surging in its narrow bottom. Dizzying cliffs rose on the far side, sheets of grey stone not far from sheer, ending in towering crags high above, where dark birds flapped and crowed to each other, while swirls of white cloud turned in the pale sky beyond. A spectacular setting, if somewhat unsettling.

“Beautiful,” murmured Jezal, but taking care not to get too close to the edge.

Logen nodded. “Reminds me of home. When I was a lad, I used to spend weeks at a time up in the High Places, testing myself against the mountains.” He took a swallow from the flask then handed it to Jezal, staring up through narrowed eyes at the dark peaks. “They always win, though. This Empire’s come and gone, and here they still are, looking down on it all. Here they’ll still be, long after all of us have gone back to the mud. They looked down on my home.” He gave a long snort, then spat phlegm over the edge of the valley. “Now they look down on nothing.”

Jezal took a swallow of water himself. “Will you go back to the North, after this?”

“Maybe. I’ve some scores to settle. Some deep, hard scores.” The Northman shrugged his shoulders. “But if I let ’em lie I daresay no one would be the worse off. I reckon they all think I’m dead, and no one’s anything but relieved about it.”

“Nothing to go back to?”

Logen winced. “Nothing but more blood. My family’s long dead and rotted, and those friends I didn’t turn on and kill myself, I got killed with my pride and my stupidity. So much for my achievements. But you’ve still got time, eh, Jezal? A good chance at a nice, peaceful life. What will you do?”

“Well… I’ve been thinking…” he cleared his throat, suddenly nervous, as though giving voice to his plans made them far closer to reality. “There’s a girl back home… well, a woman, I suppose. My friend’s sister, in fact… her name is Ardee. I think that, perhaps, I love her…” It was strange, that he was discussing his innermost feelings with this man he had thought a savage. With this man who could understand nothing of the delicate rules of life in the Union, of the sacrifice that Jezal was considering. But somehow it was easy to say. “I’ve been thinking… well… if she’ll have me, perhaps… we might marry.”

“That sounds like a good plan.” Logen grinned and nodded. “Marry her, and sow some seeds.”

Jezal raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know much about farming.”

The Northman spluttered with laughter. “Not those kind of seeds, boy!” He clapped him on the arm. “One piece of advice, though, if you’ll take one from the likes of me, find something to do with your life that don’t involve killing.” He bent and swung up his pack, shoved his arms through the straps. “Leave the fighting to those with less sense.” And he turned and struggled up the track.

Jezal nodded slowly to himself. He touched one hand to the scar on his chin, his tongue finding the hole in his teeth. Logen was right. Fighting was not the life for him. He already had one scar too many.

It was a bright day. The first time Ferro had been warm in a long while and the sun felt good, hot and angry on her face, on her bare forearms, on the backs of her hands. The shadows of rock and branch were laid out sharp on the stony ground, the spray from the falling water that flowed beside the old track flashed as it fell through the air.

The others had fallen behind. Longfoot, taking his time, smiling up at anything and everything, blathering on about the majesty of the views. Quai hunched up and dogged under the weight of his pack. Bayaz wincing and sweating, puffing as though he might fall dead at any minute. Luthar moaning about his blisters to anyone who would listen, which was no one. So it was only her and Ninefingers, striding up ahead in stony silence.

Just the way she liked it.

She scrambled over a lip of crumbling rock and came upon a dark pool, lapping at a crescent of flat stones, water hissing and splattering down into it over piled up rocks bearded with wet moss. A pair of twisted trees spread their branches out above, thin, fresh-budded leaves shimmering and rustling in the breeze. The sunlight sparkled, and insects skated and buzzed lazily on the rippling water.

A beautiful place, most likely, if you thought that way.

Ferro did not. “Fish in there,” she murmured, licking her lips. A fish would be nice, stuck on a twig over a fire. The bits of horse they had carried with them were all gone, and she was hungry. She watched the vague shapes flicker under the shimmering water as she squatted down to fill up her canteen. Lots of fish. Ninefingers dumped his heavy pack and sat down on the rocks beside it, dragging his boots off. He rolled his trousers up above his knees. “What are you doing, pink?”

He grinned at her. “I’m going to tickle me some fish out of that pool.”

“With your hands? You got clever enough fingers for that?”

“I reckon you’d know.” She frowned at him but he only smiled the wider, skin creasing up round the corners of his eyes. “Watch and learn, woman.” And he paddled out, bent over, lips pressed tight together with concentration, feeling gently around in the water.

“What’s he up to?” Luthar dumped his pack down beside Ferro’s and wiped his glistening face with the back of his hand.

“Fool thinks he can catch a fish.”

“What, with his hands?”

“Watch and learn, boy,” muttered Ninefingers. “Aaaah…” His face broke out into a smile. “And here she is.” The muscles in his forearm shifted as he worked his fingers under the water. “Got it!” And he snatched his hand up in a shower of spray. Something flashed in the bright sun and he tossed it onto the bank beside them leaving a trail of dark wet spots on the dry stones. A fish, flipping and jumping.