Джо Аберкромби - A Little Hatred - Book One (The Age of Madness)

Wonderful frowned over at Stour and let a breath sigh through her nose. ‘Long as I’m done babysitting this bastard, I really don’t care.’

‘You could come join me.’

‘And teach boys sword-work?’

‘You’ve more wisdom to pass on than most, I reckon.’

She snorted. ‘More than you have, that’s for sure.’

‘There you go. Like all good partnerships, we make up for each other’s deficiencies. You can do the passing of the wisdom, I’ll do the sitting in the shade.’ And Clover took a sup from his own cup and grinned, thinking about being propped up against his favourite tree. The rough bark against his back. The sticks going clack clack down in the field.

‘You’re serious,’ she said, eyes narrowed.

‘Well … I’m not not serious. If I’ve ended up doing things alone, it’s more through bad luck than preference.’

‘That and through killing your friends, anyway.’

‘This is the North,’ muttered Clover. ‘Who hasn’t killed a friend or two?’ And they grinned at one another, and tapped their cups together.

A few chairs down, Stour was frowning into his ale as if there was a riddle at the bottom. ‘I never lost before. Not at anything.’

‘Would’ve won if it wasn’t for that fucking witch!’ sneered Greenway, as bitter as if it was him who’d lost. ‘Fucking Long Eye, or whatever. Fucking cheating, that’s what that was. They should all have the bloody cross cut in ’em.’

‘There’s no rule against shouting out, is there?’ Stour spoke soft, and with a musing sort of look Clover never saw him wear before. ‘And I reckon she did me a favour. Losing … it’s made me see things a new way. Like putting a coloured glass to your eye and seeing the world in new colours, or … no! Like taking one away, and seeing the world as it is!’

Scale raised his brows at his nephew. He wasn’t the only one doing it. Clover scarcely had room on his forehead for how high his had gone.

‘Might be you’re more like your father than I thought,’ said the king. ‘I knew you were a fighter, but I never had you marked down for a thinker.’

‘Nor did I,’ said Stour, his wet eyes bright. ‘But when you’re laid up wounded, what can you do but think? Made me realise. The Young Lion didn’t put me in the mud. But we’re all heading there sooner or later.’

‘True, Nephew, the Great Leveller waits for us all.’

‘Made me realise.’ And Stour stared at his hand as he curled the fingers into a fist. ‘You only have a lifetime to make your name and a lifetime might not be that long.’

‘True, Nephew. No one’ll hand you a place in the songs. You have to seize it.’

‘Made me realise.’ And Stour thumped the table. ‘You can’t wait to take what’s yours.’

Scale smiled as he lifted his cup. ‘True, Ne—’

The word was cut off in a kind of sickly squelch, and the king puked blood and ale and Clover saw to his great surprise that Stour had buried a knife in his uncle’s neck.

There was a click and something spattered Clover’s face, and he saw the old warrior beside him just got his head split down to the bridge of his nose with an axe.

Another was shoved onto the table and had his head hacked off right there. Took two blows.

Another thrashed as Greenway cut his throat, kicking meat and cups off the table, ale spraying.

Another snarled curses, flailing with his eating knife, all tangled up with his own fur cloak before he got a sword through his guts. He swore and drooled blood into his beard then a mace stove in the back of his head.

One of the king’s serving girls had been knocked on the ground, the other was clutching her jug to her chest like she could hide behind it. Scale himself had flopped face down on the table, eyes popping and his tongue hanging out, still weakly blowing red bubbles out of his nose while bloody ale dripped from the edge of the table with a tap, tap, tap.

One of his old warriors was underneath it, crawling, snarling, crawling, trying to reach a fallen sword with his one good arm. He stretched, and stretched, like working his fingers across that little space of stone to the pommel was all that mattered. One of Stour’s boys hopped over the table and stomped down on the back of his neck once, twice, three times with a crunching of bone.

Didn’t take more than a few breaths for the old cunts to be sent back to the mud, the young to stand over ’em with smiles on their red-speckled faces.

Clover cleared his throat, and carefully set down his cup, and pushed back his chair and stood. Realised he still had a half-eaten meat bone in his hand and tossed it on the table, rubbing the grease from his fingers.

He felt strange. Calm. The axe made a sucking sound as it was dragged out of that old warrior’s head. Stour’s men turned towards him, red blades in their hands. Wonderful faced ’em, on her feet in a fighting crouch, sword levelled and teeth bared.

‘Easy, everyone!’ called Stour. ‘Everyone easy!’ And he sat back, the wolf smile across his bruised face wider than ever. ‘See this coming, Clover?’

‘We don’t all have the Long Eye.’ For all his high opinions of his own cleverness, he’d been as blind to it as Scale. But he knew if Stour wanted him dead, he’d have been stretched out with the others. So Clover stood there, and waited to see which way the wind would blow.

‘You make out you’re a silly bastard.’ Stour took a little sip from his cup and licked his lips. ‘But you’re a clever bastard, too. The wise fool, eh? Always thought your lessons were coward’s nonsense but, looking back, I see you had the right of it all along.’ He wagged his bloody dagger at Clover. ‘Like what you said about knives and swords. Spent twenty years training with a sword every morning and every dusk, but I won more with one knife-thrust. I’d like you to stick with me. Might be you’ve more to teach. But … I’ll need a show o’ good faith.’ He looked sideways, to Wonderful. ‘Kill her.’

She turned, eyes wide. ‘Clo—’

She looked greatly surprised as he caught her in a hug, her sword arm trapped under his left while he stabbed her in the heart with his right, and the blood gushed hot over his fist and down his arm and spattered the floor.

You have to pick your moment. He’d always said so. Told everyone who’d listen. Have to recognise it when it comes, and seize it, with no care for the past and no worries about the future.

He held her as she died. Didn’t take long. He told himself he’d want to be held when he went back to the mud, but it was really that he wanted to hold her. Needed to. What she felt about it, there was no knowing. The feelings of the dead weigh less than a feather.

No last words. Just a sort of grunt. And Clover lowered her to the ground and laid her in the widening pool of her own blood, her disappointed eyes fixed on some cobwebs high among the rafters.

‘Fuck,’ said Stour. ‘You didn’t have to think about that for long.’

‘No.’ Clover had seen a lot of corpses. Made a fair few himself. But he was having trouble thinking of Wonderful as dead. Any moment, she’d laugh it off. Make some joke about it. Cut him down to size with a raised brow.

‘That was cold .’ Greenway shook his head while another of the young warriors gave a long whistle. ‘Cold.’

‘A man has to bend with the breeze.’ The Great Wolf’s grin was wider than ever. ‘You’re a bastard, Clover. But you’re my kind of bastard.’

Stour’s kind of bastard. That was where all his cleverness had got him.

There was a bang as the doors were flung open, armed men spilling into the hall, painted shields up and swords and spears and axes ready. Black Calder strode in after them, eyes wide as he took in all the murder.