Joe Abercrombie - Sharp Ends

‘Don’t bloody worry about that!’ snapped Shev. ‘Believe me when I say I want less than no part of this stupidity. As for sneaking, I tried to get out of that business and open a Smoke House, but my partner burned it down!’

‘Sidekick at best,’ said Javre. ‘And as I recall it was you who knocked the coals over. Honestly, Shevedieh, you are always looking for someone to blame. If you want to ever be half of a duo you must learn to take responsibility.’

‘Smoke House?’ asked Whirrun. ‘You like fish?’

‘No, no,’ said Shev. ‘Well, yes, but not that kind of Smoke House, you … Forget it.’ And she dropped down on a rock and propped her chin on her fists.

‘Since we are making rules …’ Javre winced as she hitched up her bust. ‘Can we say no strikes to the tits? Men never realise how much that hurts.’

‘Fine.’ Whirrun lifted one leg to rearrange his groin. ‘If you avoid the fruits. Bloody things can get in the way.’

‘It’s poor design,’ said Shev. ‘Didn’t I say it? Poor design.’

Javre shrugged her coat off and tossed it over Shev’s head.

‘Thanks,’ she snapped as she dragged it off her damp hair and around her damp shoulders.

Javre raised her fists and Whirrun gave an approving nod as the sinews popped from her arms. ‘You are without doubt an impressive figure of a woman.’ He put up his own fists, woody muscle flexing. ‘But I will take no mercy on you because of that.’

‘Good. Except around the chest area?’

‘As agreed.’ Whirrun grinned. ‘This may be a battle for the songs.’

‘You will have trouble singing them without your teeth.’

They traded blows, lightning quick. Whirrun’s fist sank into Javre’s ribs with a thud but she barely seemed to notice, letting go three quick punches and catching him full on the jaw with the last. He did not waver, only took a quick step back, already set and watchful.

‘You are strong,’ he said. ‘For a woman.’

‘I will show you how strong.’

She lunged at him with a vicious flurry of blows but caught only air as he jerked this way and that, slippery as a fish in the river for all his size. Meat slapped as Javre caught his counters on her forearms, growling through gritted teeth, shrugged off a cuff on her forehead and caught Whirrun’s arm. In a flash she dropped to one knee, heaved him over her head and into the air, but he tucked himself up neat as Shev used to when she tumbled in that travelling show, hit the turf with his shoulder, rolled and came up on his feet, still smiling.

‘Every day should be a new lesson,’ he said.

‘You are quick,’ said Javre. ‘For a man.’

‘I will show you how quick.’

He came at her, feinted high, ducked under her raking heel and caught her other calf, lifting her effortlessly to fling her down. But Javre had already hooked her leg around the back of his neck and dragged him down with her. They tumbled in a tangle of limbs to the muddy ground, rolling about with scant dignity, squirming and snapping, punching and kneeing, spitting and snarling.

‘This is hell.’ Shev gave a long groan and looked off into the mist. ‘This is …’ She paused, heart sinking even lower. ‘You two,’ she muttered, slowly standing. ‘You two!’

‘We are …’ snarled Javre as she kneed Whirrun in the ribs.

‘A little …’ snarled Whirrun as he butted her in the mouth.

‘Busy!’ snarled Javre as they rolled struggling through a puddle.

‘You may want to stop,’ growled Shev. Figures were emerging from the mist. First three. Then five. Now seven men, one of them on a horse. ‘I think perhaps Bethod’s agents have arrived.’

‘Arse!’ Whirrun scrambled free of Javre, hurrying over to his sword and striking a suitably impressive pose with his hand on the hilt, only slightly spoiled by his whole bare side being smeared with mud. Shev swallowed and let the dagger drop into her hand once again. It spent a lot more time there than she’d like.

The first to take full shape from the mist was a nervous-looking boy, couldn’t have been more than fifteen, who half-drew his bow with somewhat wobbly hands, arrow pointed roughly in Whirrun’s direction. Next came a selection of Northmen, impressively bearded if you liked that kind of thing, which Shev didn’t, and even more impressively armed, if you liked that kind of thing, which Shev didn’t either.

‘Evening, Flood,’ said Whirrun, dabbing some blood from his split lip.

‘Whirrun,’ said the one who Shev presumed to be the leader, leaning on his spear as if he’d walked a long way.

Whirrun began to conspicuously count the Northmen with a wagging finger, his lips silently moving.

‘There are seven,’ said Shev.

‘Ah!’ said Whirrun. ‘You’re right, she’s a quick thinker. Seven! I’m touched Bethod can spare so many, just for me. Thought he’d need every man, what with this war against the Southerners. I mean to say, they call me mad, but this war? Now that’s mad.’

‘Can’t say I disagree,’ said Flood, combing at his beard with his dirty fingers, ‘but I don’t make the choices.’

‘Some men don’t have the bones to make the choices.’

‘And some men are just tired of their choices always turning out the wrong ones. I know being difficult comes natural to you, Whirrun, but could you try not to be just for a little while? Bethod’s King of the Northmen, now. He can’t have people just going their own way.’

‘I am Whirrun of Bligh,’ said Whirrun, puffing up his considerable chest. ‘My way is the only way I go.’

‘Oh, God,’ muttered Shev. ‘He’s the male Javre. He’s the male you, Javre!’

‘He is certainly in the neighbourhood,’ said Javre, with a note of grudging appreciation, flicking away some sheep’s droppings which had become stuck in her hair in the struggle. ‘Why does only one of you have a horse?’

The Northmen glanced at each other as though this was the source of some friction between them.

‘There’s a war on,’ grunted one with shitty teeth. ‘Not that many horses about.’

Shev snorted. ‘Don’t I know it. You think I’d be walking if I didn’t have to?’

‘It’s my horse,’ said Flood. ‘But Kerric’s got a bad leg so I said he could borrow it.’

‘We’ve all got bad legs,’ grunted a big one with an entirely excessive beard and an axe even more so.

‘Now is probably not the time to reopen discussion of who gets the horse,’ snapped Flood. ‘The dead know we’ve argued over that particular issue enough, don’t you bloody think?’ With a gesture, he started the men spreading out to the right and left. ‘Who the hell are the women anyway, Whirrun?’

Shev rolled her eyes as Javre did her own puffing up. ‘I am Javre, Lioness of Hoskopp.’

Flood raised one brow. ‘And your servant?’

Shev gave a weary groan. ‘Oh, for-’

‘She’s not a servant, she’s a henchman,’ said Whirrun. ‘Or … henchwoman? Is that a word?’

‘Partner!’ snapped Shev.

‘No, no.’ Javre shook her head. ‘Partner? No.’

‘It really doesn’t matter,’ said Flood, starting to become impatient. ‘The point is Bethod wants to talk to you, Whirrun, and you’ll be coming with us even if we have to hurt you-’

‘One moment.’ Javre held up her big hand. ‘This man and I are in the midst of resolving a previous disagreement. You can hurt whatever is left of him when I am done.’

‘By the dead.’ Flood pressed thumb and forefinger into his eyes and rubbed them fiercely. ‘Nothing’s ever easy. Why is nothing ever easy?’

‘Believe me,’ said Shev, tightening her grip on her knife, ‘I feel your pain. You were going to fight him for nothing, now you’re going to fight for him for nothing?’