Joe Abercrombie - The Heroes

One of the steps creaked and the breath stopped in Beck’s throat. Maybe one creak sounds like another, but somehow he knew this was made by the foot of a man aiming to keep quiet. Sweat sprang out of his skin. Trickling, tickling down his neck. Didn’t dare move to scratch it. He strained with every muscle to make no sound, wincing at every smallest wheeze in his throat, not daring even to swallow. His fruits, and his arse, and his guts all felt like they were a huge, cold weight he could hardly stop from dropping out of him.

Another stealthy, creaking step. Beck thought he could hear the bastard hissing something. Taunting him. Knew he was there, then. Couldn’t make out the words, his heart was thumping so loud in his ears, so hard it felt like it might pop his eyes right out. Beck tried to shrink back into the cupboard, one eye fixed on the ragged slit between two planks of the door, the slice of attic beyond. The point of the man’s sword slid into view, glinting murder, then the blade, dotted with red. Colving’s blood, or Brait’s, or Reft’s. And Beck’s too, soon enough. A Union sword, he could tell from the twisted metal around the hilt.

Another creaking step, and Beck spread his fingertips out against the rough wood, hardly touching it in case the rusted hinges gave him away. He gripped the hot hilt of his own sword, a narrow strip of light across the bright blade, the rest gleaming in the darkness. He had to fight. Had to, if he wanted to see his mother, and his brothers, and their farm again. And that was all he wanted, now.

One more creaking step. He took a long, cutting breath, chest swelling with it, frozen, frozen, time stretching. How long could a man need to take a pace?

One more footstep.

Beck burst out, screaming, flinging back the door. The loose corner caught on the boards and he stumbled over it, plunging off balance, no choice but to charge.

The Union man stood in the shadows, head turning. Beck thrust wild, felt the point bite, crosspiece digging at his knuckles as the blade slid through the Union man’s chest. They spun in a growling hug and something whacked Beck hard on the head. The low beam. He came down on his back with the weight of the Union man full across him, breath driven out in a whoosh, hand squashed around the grip of his sword. Took a moment for Beck’s eyes to adjust, but when they did he was staring straight up into a twisted, bulge-eyed face.

Only it weren’t a Union man at all. It was Reft.

He took a long, slow, wheezing breath in, cheeks trembling. Then he coughed blood into Beck’s face.

Beck whimpered, kicked, squirmed free, rolled Reft off and scrambled clear of him. Knelt there, staring.

Reft lay on his side. One hand scratched at the floor, one eye rolled up towards Beck. He was trying to say something but the words were gurgles. Blood bubbling out from mouth and nose. Blood creeping from underneath him and down the grain of the boards. Black in the shadows. Dark red where it crossed a patch of light.

Beck put one hand on his shoulder. Almost whispered his name, knew there was no point. His other hand closed around the grip of his sword, slick with blood. It was a lot harder to get it out than it had been to put it in. Made a faint sucking sound as it came clear. Almost said Reft’s name again. Found he couldn’t speak. Reft’s fingers had stopped moving, his eyes wide open, red on his lips, on his neck. Beck put the back of one hand against his mouth. Realised it was all bloody. Realised he was bloody all over. Soaked with it. Red with it. Stood, stomach suddenly rolling. Reft’s eyes were still on him. He tottered over to the stairs and down ’em, sword scraping a pink groove in the plaster. His father’s sword.

No one moved downstairs. He could hear fighting out in the street, maybe. Mad shouting. There was a faint haze of smoke, tang of it tickling his throat. His mouth tasted of blood. Blood and metal and raw meat. All the lads were dead. Stodder was on his face near the steps, one hand reaching for ’em. The back of his head was neatly split, hair matted to dark curls. Colving was against the wall, head back, hands clamped to his chubby gut, shirt soaked with blood. Brait just looked like a pile of rags in the corner. Never had looked like much more’n a pile a rags, the poor bastard.

There were four Union men dead too, all near each other, like they’d decided to stick together. Beck stood in the midst of ’em. The enemy. Such good gear they all had. Breastplates, and greaves, and polished helmets, all the same. And boys like Brait had died with not much more’n a split stick and a knife blade stuck in it. Weren’t fair, really. None of it was fair.

One of ’em was on his side and Beck rolled him over with his boot, head flopping. He was left squinting up at the ceiling, eyes looking off different ways. Apart from his gear, there didn’t look to be much special about him. He was younger’n Beck had thought, a downy effort at a beard on his cheeks. The enemy.

There was a crash. The shattered door was kicked out of the way and someone took a lurching step into the room, shield in front of him and a mace up in the other hand. Beck just stood staring. Didn’t even raise his sword. The man limped forward, and gave a long whistle.

‘What happened, lad?’ asked Flood.

‘Don’t know.’ He didn’t know, really. Or at least, he knew what, but not how. Not why. ‘I killed …’ He tried to point upstairs, but he couldn’t raise his arm. Ended up pointing at the dead Union boys at his feet. ‘I killed …’

‘You hurt?’ Flood was pressing at his blood-soaked shirt, looking him over for a wound.

‘Ain’t mine.’

‘Got four o’ the bastards, eh? Where’s Reft?’

‘Dead.’

‘Right. Well. You can’t think about that. Least you made it.’ Flood slid one arm around his shoulders and led him out into the bright street.

The wind outside felt cold through Beck’s blood-soaked shirt and his piss-soaked trousers, made him shiver. Cobbles coated with dust and blowing ash, with splintered wood, fallen weapons. Dead of both sides tossed around and wounded too. Saw a Union man on the ground, holding up a helpless arm while two Thralls hacked at him with axes. Smoke still shifting across the square, but Beck could see there was a new struggle on the bridge, shadows of men and weapons in the murk, the odd flitting arrow.

A big old-timer in dark mail and a battered helmet sat on horseback at the front of a wedge of others, pointing across the square with a broken length of wood, roaring at the top of his lungs in a voice husky from smoke. ‘Push ’em back over the bridge! Drive the bastards!’ One of the men behind had a standard on a pole – white horse on green. Reachey’s sign. Which he guessed made the old man Reachey his self.

Beck was only just starting to make sense of it. The Northmen had laid on an attack of their own, just the way Flood had said, and caught the Union as they got bogged down in the houses and the twisting lanes. Driven ’em back across the river. Looked like he might even not die today, and the thought made him want to cry. Maybe he would’ve, if his eyes hadn’t been watering already from the smoke.

‘Reachey!’

The old warrior looked over. ‘Flood! Still alive, y’old bastard?’

‘Half way to it, Chief. Hard fighting hereabouts.’

‘I’ll say. I broke my bloody axe! Union men got good helmets, eh? Not good enough, though.’ Reachey tossed the splintered haft clattering across the ruined square. ‘You did some decent work here.’

‘Lost about all my boys, though,’ said Flood. ‘Just this one left.’ And he clapped Beck on the shoulder. ‘Got four o’ the bastards on his own, he did.’

‘Four? What’s your name, lad?’

Beck gawped up at Reachey and his Named Men. All watching him. He should’ve put ’em all right. Told the truth. But even if he’d had the bones, and he didn’t, he didn’t have the breath in him to say that many words. So he just said, ‘Beck.’