Joe Abercrombie - The Heroes

Wonderful slipped the needle through, pulled the thread after and tied it off. Normally it would’ve been Whirrun doing it, but Cracknut had sewed his last stitches, more was the pity. ‘Just as well you’ve got a thick head.’

‘Served me well my whole life.’ Craw made the joke without thinking, no laughter given or expected, just as shouting came up from the wall that faced the Children. Where shouting would come from if the Union came again. He stood, the world see-sawed wildly for a moment and his skull felt like it was going to burst.

Yon grabbed his elbow. ‘You all right?’

‘Aye, all things considered.’ And Craw swallowed his urge to spew and pushed through the crowd, the valley opening out in front of him, sky stained strange colours as the storm passed off. ‘They coming again?’ He wasn’t sure they could stand another go. He was sure he couldn’t.

Dow was all grin, though. ‘In a manner of speaking.’ He pointed out three figures making their way up the slope towards the Heroes. The very same route Hardbread had taken a few days before when he came to ask for his hill back. When Craw had still had the best part of a dozen, all looking to him to keep ’em safe. ‘Reckon they want to talk.’

‘Talk?’

‘Let’s go.’ And Dow tossed his blood-crusted axe to Shivers, straightened the chain about his shoulders and strode through the gap in the mossy wall and down the hillside.

‘Not too fast,’ called Craw as he set off after. ‘Don’t reckon my knees’ll take it!’

The three figures came closer. Craw felt just the slightest bit happier when he realised one was the woman he’d taken across the bridge yesterday, wearing a soldier’s coat. The relief leaked quick when he saw who the third was, though. The big Union man who’d nearly killed him, a bandage around his thick skull.

They met about half way between the Heroes and the Children. Where the first arrows were prickling the ground. The old man stood with shoulders back, one fist clasped behind him in the other. Clean-shaven, with short grey hair and a sharp look, like he missed nothing. He wore a black coat, stitched with leaves at the collar in silver thread, a sword at his side with a pommel made from some jewel, looked like it had never been drawn. The girl stood at his elbow, the neckless soldier a little further back, his eyes on Craw, the white of one turned all bloody red and a black cut under the other. Looked like he’d left his sword in the mud up on the hill, but he’d found another. You didn’t have to look far for a blade around here. Those were the times.

Dow stopped a couple of paces above them and Craw stopped a pace behind that, hands crossed in front of him. Close enough to get at his sword quick, though he doubted he’d have had the strength to draw the damn thing. Standing up was enough of a challenge. Dow was chirpier.

‘Well, well.’ Grinning down at the girl with every tooth and spreading his arms in greeting. ‘Never expected to be seeing you again so soon. Do you want to hold me?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘This is my father, Lord Marshal Kroy, commander of his Majesty’s—’

‘I guessed. And you lied.’

She frowned up at him. ‘Lied?’

‘He’s shorter’n me.’ Dow’s grin spread even wider. ‘Or he looks it from where I’m standing, anyway. Quite the day we’re having, ain’t it? Quite the red day.’ He lifted a fallen Union spear with the toe of his boot, then nudged it away. ‘So what can I do for you?’

‘My father would like to end the fighting.’

Craw felt such a wave of relief his swollen knees almost went out from under him. Dow was cagier. ‘Could’ve done that yesterday when I offered, given us all a lot less bloody digging to do.’

‘He’s offering now.’

Dow looked across at Craw, and Craw just about managed to shrug. ‘Better tardy than not at all.’

‘Huh.’ Dow narrowed his eyes at the girl, and at the soldier, and at the marshal, like he was thinking of saying no. Then he put his hands on his hips, and sighed. ‘All right. Can’t say I wanted any of this in the first place. There’s people of my own I could’ve been killing, ’stead o’ wasting my sweat on you bastards.’

The girl said a few words to her father, he said a few back. ‘My father is greatly relieved.’

‘Then my life’s worth living. I’ve a few things to tidy up before we hammer out the details.’ He cast an eye over the carnage on the Children. ‘Probably you have too. We’ll talk tomorrow. Let’s say after lunch, I can’t do business with a hollow belly.’

The girl passed it on to her father in Union, and while she did it Craw looked down at the red-eyed soldier, and he looked back. He had a long smear of blood down his neck. His, or Craw’s, or one of Craw’s dead friends’? Not even an hour ago they’d struggled with every shred of strength and will to murder each other. Now there was no need. Made him wonder why there ever had been.

‘He’s a right fucking killer, your man there,’ said Dow, more or less summing up Craw’s thoughts.

The girl looked over her shoulder. ‘He is …’ searching for the right words. ‘The king’s watcher.’

Dow snorted. ‘He did a bit more’n fucking watch today. He’s got a devil in him, and I mean that as a compliment. Man like him could do well over on our side o’ the Whiteflow. He was a Northman he’d be in all the songs. Shit, might be he’d be a king instead o’ just watching one.’ Dow smiled that killing smile he had. ‘Ask him if he wants to work for me.’

The girl opened her mouth but the neckless one spoke first, with a thick accent and the strangest, high, girlish little voice Craw had ever heard on a man. ‘I am happy where I am.’

Dow raised one brow. “Course you are. Real happy. Must be why you’re so damn good at killing men.’

‘What about my friend?’ asked the girl. ‘The one who was captured with me—’

‘Don’t give up, do you?’ Dow showed his teeth again. ‘You really think anyone’ll want her back, now?’

She looked him right in the eye. ‘I want her back. Didn’t I get what you asked for?’

‘Too late for some.’ Dow ran a careless eye over the carnage scattered across the slope, took in a breath, and blew it out. ‘But that’s war, eh? There have to be losers. Might be an idea to send some messengers, let everyone know they can all stop fighting and have a big sing-song instead. Be a shame to carry on butchering each other for nothing, wouldn’t it?’

The woman blinked, then rendered it into Union again. ‘My father would like to recover our dead.’

But the Protector of the North was already turning away. ‘Tomorrow. They won’t run off.’

Black Dow walked off up the slope, the older man giving her the faintest, apologetic grin before he followed.

Finree took a long breath, held it, then let it out. ‘I suppose that’s it.’

‘Peace is always an anticlimax,’ said her father, ‘but no less desirable for that.’ He started stiffly back towards the Children and she walked beside him.

A throwaway conversation, a couple of bad jokes that half the gathering of five could not even have understood, and it was done. The battle was over. The war was over. Could they have had that conversation at the start, and would all those men – all these men – still be alive? Still have their arms, or legs? However she turned it around, she could not make it fit. Perhaps she should have been angry at the stupendous waste, but she was too tired, too irritated by the way her damp clothes were chafing her back. And at least it was over now after—

Thunder rolled across the battlefield. Terribly, frighteningly loud. For a moment she thought it must be lightning striking the Heroes. A last, petulant stroke of the storm. Then she saw the mighty ball of fire belching up from Osrung, so large she fancied she could feel the heat of it on her face. Specks flew about it, spun away from it, streaks and spirals of dust following them high into the sky. Pieces of buildings, she realised. Beams,blocks. Men. The flame vanished and a great cloud of black smoke shot up after it, spilling into the sky like a waterfall reversed.