Abercrombie, Joe - The Heroes

All he could think about was how it might make his life more difficult. All the extra tasks he’d have to do, the responsibilities he didn’t feel ready for. He was the heir, now, to all his father’s priceless legacy of feuds, hatred and bad blood. He felt annoyance rather than grief, and puzzled he didn’t feel more. Everyone was looking at him. Watching him, to see what he’d do. To judge what kind of man he was. He was embarrassed, almost, that this was all his brother’s death made him feel. Not guilty, not sad, just cold. And then angry.

And then very angry.

Strange Bedfellows

The hood was pulled from her head and Finree squinted into the light. Such as it was. The room was dim and dusty with two mean windows and a low ceiling, bowing in the middle, cobwebs drifting from the rafters.

A Northman stood a couple of paces in front of her, feet planted wide and hands on hips, head tipped slightly back in the stance of a man used to being obeyed, and quickly. His short hair was peppered with grey and his face was sharp as a chisel, notched with old scars, an appraising twist to his mouth. A chain of heavy golden links gleamed faintly around his shoulders. An important man. Or one who thought himself important, at least.

An older man stood behind him, thumbs in his belt near a battered sword hilt. He had a shaggy grey growth on his jaw somewhere between beard and stubble and a fresh cut on his cheek, dark red and rimmed with pink, closed with ugly stitches. He wore an expression somewhat sad, somewhat determined, as if he did not like what was coming but could see no way to avoid it, and now was fixed on seeing it through, whatever it cost him. A lieutenant of the first man.

As Finree’s eyes adjusted she saw a third figure in the shadows against the wall. A woman, she was surprised to see, and with black skin. Tall and thin, a long coat hanging open to show a body wrapped in bandages. Where she stood in this, Finree could not tell.

She did not turn her head to look, in spite of the temptation, but she knew there was another man behind her, his gravelly breath at the edge of her hearing. The one with the metal eye. She wondered if he had that little knife in his hand, and how close the point was to her back. Her skin prickled inside her dirty dress at the thought.

‘This is her?’ sneered the man with the chain at the black-skinned woman, and when he turned his head Finree saw there was only a fold of old scar where his ear should have been.

‘Yes.’

‘She don’t look much like the answer to all my problems.’

The woman stared at Finree, unblinking. ‘Probably she has looked better.’ Her eyes were like a lizard’s, black and empty.

The man with the chain took a step forwards and Finree had to stop herself cringing. There was something in the set of him that made her feel he was teetering on the edge of violence. That his every smallest movement was the prelude to a punch, or a headbutt, or worse. That his natural instinct was to throttle her and it took a constant effort to stop himself doing it, and talk instead. ‘Do you know who I am?’

She lifted her chin, trying to look undaunted and almost certainly failing. Her heart was thumping so hard she was sure they must be able to hear it against her ribs. ‘No,’ she said in Northern.

‘You understand me, then.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m Black Dow.’

‘Oh.’ She hardly knew what to say. ‘I thought you’d be taller.’

Dow raised one scar-nicked brow at the older man. The older man shrugged. ‘What can I say? You’re shorter’n your reputation.’

‘Most of us are.’ Dow looked back at Finree, eyes narrowed, judging her response. ‘How ’bout your father? Taller’n me?’

They knew who she was. Who her father was. She had no idea how, but they knew. That was either a good thing or a very bad one. She looked at the older man and he gave her the faintest, apologetic smile, then winced since he must have stretched his stitches doing it. She felt the man with the metal eye shift his weight behind her, a floorboard creaking. This did not seem like a group from which she could expect good things.

‘My father is about your height,’ she said, her voice whispery.

Dow grinned, but there was no humour in it. ‘Well, that’s a damn good height to be.’

‘If you mean to gain some advantage over him through me, you will be disappointed.’

‘Will I?’

‘Nothing will sway him from his duty.’

‘Won’t be sorry to lose you, eh?’

‘He’ll be sorry. But he’ll only fight you harder.’

‘Oh, I’m getting a fine sense for the man! Loyal, and strong, and bulging with righteousness. Like iron on the outside, but …’ And he thumped at his chest with one fist and pushed out his bottom lip. ‘He feels it. Feels it all, right here. And weeps at the quiet times.’

Finree looked right back. ‘You have him close enough.’

Dow whipped out his grin like a killer might a knife. ‘Sounds like my fucking twin.’ The older man gave a snort of laughter. The woman smiled, showing a mouthful of impossibly perfect white teeth. The man with the metal eye made no sound. ‘Good thing you won’t be relying on your father’s tender mercies, then. I got no plans to bargain with you, or ransom you, or even send your head over the river in a box. Though we’ll see how the conversation goes, you might yet change my mind on that score.’

There was a long pause, while Dow watched her and she watched him. Like the accused waiting for the judge to pass sentence.

‘I’ve a mind to let you go,’ he said. ‘I want you to take a message back to your father. Let him know I don’t see the purpose shedding any more blood over this worthless fucking valley. Let him know I’m willing to talk.’ Dow gave a loud sniff, worked his mouth as if it tasted bad. ‘Talk about … peace.’

Finree blinked. ‘Talk.’

‘That’s right.’

‘About peace.’

‘That’s right.’

She felt dizzy. Drunk on the sudden prospect of living to see her husband and her father again. But she had to put that to one side, think past it. She took a long breath through her nose and steadied herself. ‘That will not be good enough.’

She was pleased to see Black Dow look quite surprised. ‘Won’t it, now?’

‘No.’ It was difficult to appear authoritative while bruised, beaten, dirt-spattered and surrounded by the most daunting enemies, but Finree did her very best. She would not get through this with meekness. Black Dow wished to deal with someone powerful. That would make him feel powerful. The more powerful she made herself, the safer she was. So she raised her chin and looked him full in the eye. ‘You need to make a gesture of goodwill. Something to let my father know you are serious. That you are willing to negotiate. Proof you are a reasonable man.’

Black Dow snorted. ‘You hear that, Craw? Goodwill. Me.’

The older man shrugged. ‘Proof you’re reasonable.’

‘More proof than sending back his daughter without a hole in her head?’ grated Dow, looking her up and down. ‘Or her head in her hole, for that matter.’

She floated over it. ‘After the battle yesterday, you must have prisoners.’ Unless they had all been murdered. Looking into Black Dow’s eyes, it did not seem unlikely.

‘’Course we’ve got prisoners.’ Dow cocked his head on one side, drifting closer. ‘You think I’m some kind of an animal?’

Finree did, in fact. ‘I want them released.’

‘Do you, now? All of ’em?’

‘Yes.’

‘For nothing?’

‘A gesture of—’

He jerked forwards, nose almost touching hers, thick veins bulging from the side of his thick neck. ‘You’re in no place to negotiate, you fucking little—’