The Great Leveller by Joe Abercrombie
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.’
‘Just Beck?’
‘Aye.’
Reachey grinned. ‘Man like you needs a bit more name than that, I reckon. We’ll call you …’ He looked Beck up and down for a moment, then nodded to himself like he had the answer. ‘Red Beck.’ He turned in his saddle and shouted to his Named Men. ‘How d’you like that, lads? Red Beck!’ And they started banging their shields with their sword hilts, and their chests with their gauntlets, and sending up a right clatter.
‘You see this?’ shouted Reachey. ‘Here’s the kind o’ lad we need! Everyone look at this lad! Let’s find us some more like him! Some more bloody little bastards!’ Laughter, and cheering, and nods of approval all round. Mostly for the Union being driven back past the bridge, but partly for him, and his bloody day. He’d always wanted respect, and the company of fighting men, and above all a fearsome name. Now he had the lot, and all he’d had to do was hide in a cupboard and kill someone on his own side, then take the credit for his work.
‘Red Beck.’ Flood grinned proudly like a father at his baby’s first steps. ‘What d’you reckon to that, boy?’
Beck stared down at the ground. ‘Don’t know.’
Straight Edge
‘Ah!’ Craw jerked away from the needle on an instinct and only made the thread tug at his cheek and hurt him worse, ‘Ah!’
‘Oftentimes,’ murmured Whirrun, ‘a man’s better served embracing his pain than trying to escape it. Things are smaller when you face ’em.’
‘Easily said when you’re the one with the needle.’ Craw sucked air through his teeth as the point nipped at his cheek again. Hardly the first stitches he ever had, but it’s strange how quick you forget what a given kind of pain feels like. It was coming back to him now, and no mistake. ‘Best thing might be to get it over with quick, eh?’
‘I’m right there with you on that, but the sorry fact is I’m a much better killer than I am a healer. Tragedy of my life. I can stitch all right and I know Crow’s Foot from the Alomanter and how to rub each one on a bandage and I can hum a charm or two—’
‘They any use?’
‘The way I sing ’em? Only for scaring off cats.’
‘Ah!’ grunted Craw as Whirrun pressed his cut closed between finger and thumb and pushed the needle through again. He really had to stop squawking, there were plenty about with far worse’n a scratch across the cheek.
‘Sorry,’ grunted Whirrun. ‘You know, I’ve thought on it before, now and then, in the slow moments—’
‘You get a lot o’ those, don’t you?’
‘Well, you’re taking your time about showing me this destiny of mine. Anyway, it seems to me a man can do an awful lot of evil in no time at all. Swing of a blade is all it takes. Doing good needs time. And all manner of complicated efforts. Most men don’t have the patience for it. ’Specially not these days.’
‘Those are the times.’ Craw paused, chewing at a flap of loose skin on his bottom lip. ‘Do I say that too much? Am I turning into my father? Am I turning into a boring old fool?’
‘All heroes do.’
Craw snorted. ‘Those that live to hear their own songs.’
‘Terrible strain on a man, hearing his self sung about. Enough to make anyone a shit.’
‘Even if they weren’t one in the first place.’
‘Which isn’t likely. I guess hearing songs about warriors makes men feel brave their own selves, but a great warrior has to be at least half way mad.’
‘Oh, I’ve known a few great warriors weren’t mad at all. Just heartless, careless, selfish bastards.’
Whirrun bit off the thread with his teeth. ‘That is the other common option.’
‘Which are you, then, Whirrun? Mad or a heartless prick?’
‘I try to bridge the gap between the two.’
Craw chuckled in spite of the throbbing in his face. ‘That right there. That right there is a bloody hero’s effort.’
Whirrun settled back on his heels. ‘You’re done. And not a bad job either, though I’m singing my own praises. Maybe I’ll give up the killing and turn to healing after all.’
A growling voice cut through the faint ringing still going in Craw’s ears. ‘After the battle, though, eh?’
Whirrun blinked up. ‘Why, if it ain’t the Protector of the North. I feel all … protected. Swaddled up, like in a good coat.’
‘Had that effect all my life.’ Dow looked down at Craw with his hands on his hips, the sun bright behind him.
‘You going to bring me some fighting, Black Dow?’ Whirrun slowly stood, pulling his sword up after him. ‘I came here to fill graves, and the Father of Swords is getting thirsty.’
‘I daresay I can scare you up something to kill before too long. In the meantime I need a private word with Curnden Craw, here.’
Whirrun clapped a hand to his chest. ‘Wouldn’t dream of putting myself in between two lovers.’ And he swanned off up the hill, sword over one shoulder.
‘Strange bastard, that,’ said Dow as he watched Whirrun go.
Craw grunted as he unfolded his legs and slowly stood, shaking his aching joints out. ‘He plays up to it. You know how it is, having a reputation.’
‘Fame’s a prison, no doubt. How’s your face?’
‘Lucky I’ve always been an ugly bastard. I’ll look no worse’n before. Do we know what it was did the damage?’
Dow shook his head. ‘Who knows with the Southerners? Some new weapon. Some style o’ sorcery.’
‘It’s an evil one. That can just reach out and pluck men away like that.’
‘Is it? The Great Leveller’s waiting for all of us, ain’t he? There’ll always be someone stronger, quicker, luckier’n you, and the more fighting you do the quicker he’s going to find you. That’s what life is for men like us. The time spent plummeting towards that moment.’
Craw wasn’t sure he cared for that notion. ‘At least in the line, or the charge, or the circle a man can fight. Pretend to have a hand in the outcome.’ He winced as he touched the fresh stitching with his fingertips. ‘How do you make a song about someone whose head got splattered while he was half way through saying nothing much?’
‘Like Splitfoot.’
‘Aye.’ Craw wasn’t sure he’d ever seen anyone look deader than that bastard.
‘I want you to take his place.’
‘Eh?’ said Craw. ‘My ears are still whining. Not sure I heard you right.’
Dow leaned closer. ‘I want you to be my Second. Lead my Carls. Watch my back.’
Craw stared. ‘Me?’
‘Aye, you, what did I fucking say?’
‘But … why the hell me?’
‘You got the experience, and the respect …’ Dow looked at him for a moment, his jaw clenched tight. Then he waved a hand like he was swatting a fly. ‘You remind me o’ Threetrees.’
Craw blinked. It might’ve been one of the best things anyone had ever said to him, and not from a source prone to lazy compliments. Or any compliments at all, in fact. ‘Well … I don’t know what to say. Thank you, Chief. That means a lot. A hell of a bloody lot. If I ever get to be a tenth of the man he was then I’ll be more’n satisfied—’
‘Shit on that. Just tell me you’ll do it. I need someone I can count on, Craw, and you do things the old way. You’re a straight edge, and there ain’t many left. Just tell me you’ll do it.’ He had a strange look to him, suddenly. An odd, weak twist to his mouth. If Craw hadn’t known better, he’d have called it fear, and suddenly he saw it.
Dow had no one he could turn his back to. No friends but those he’d scared into serving him and a mountain of enemies. No choice but to trust to a man he hardly knew ’cause he reminded him of an old comrade long gone back to the mud. The cost of a great big name. The harvest of a lifetime in the black business.
‘’Course I’ll do it.’ And like that it was said. Maybe he felt for Dow in that moment, however mad it sounded. Maybe he understood the loneliness of being Chief. Or maybe the embers of his own ambitions, that he’d thought burned out beside his brothers’ graves long ago, flared up one last time when Dow raked ’em over. Either way it was said, and there was no unsaying it. Without wondering if it was the right thing to do. For him, or for his dozen, or for anyone, and straight away Craw had a terrible feeling like he’d made a bastard of a mistake. ‘Just while the battle’s on, though,’ he added, rowing back from the waterfall fast as he could. ‘I’ll hold the gap ’til you find someone better.’
‘Good man.’ Dow held out his hand, and they shook, and when Craw looked up again it was into that wolf grin, not a trace of weakness or fear or anything even close. ‘You done the right thing, Craw.’
Craw watched Dow walk back up the hillside towards the stones, wondering whether he’d really let his hard mask slip or if he’d just slipped a soft one on. The right thing? Had Craw just signed up as right hand to one of the most hated men in the world? A man with more enemies than any other in a land where everyone had too many? A man he didn’t even particularly like, promised to guard with his life? He gave a groan.
What would his dozen have to say about this? Yon shaking his head with a face like thunder. Drofd looking all hurt and confused. Brack rubbing at his temples with his— Brack was back to the mud, he realised with a jolt. Wonderful? By the dead, what would she have to—
‘Craw.’ And there she was, right at his elbow.
‘Ah!’ he said, taking a step away.
‘How’s the face?’
‘Er … all right … I guess. Everyone else all right?’
‘Yon got a splinter in his hand and it’s made him pissier’n ever, but he’ll live.’
‘Good. That’s … good. That everyone’s all right, that is, not … not the splinter.’
Her brows drew in, guessing something was wrong, which wasn’t too difficult since he was making a pitiful effort at hiding it. ‘What did our noble Protector want?’
‘He wanted …’ Craw worked his lips for a moment, wondering how to frame it, but a turd’s a turd however it’s framed. ‘He wanted to offer me Splitfoot’s place.’
He’d been expecting her to laugh her arse off, but she just narrowed her eyes. ‘You? Why?’
Good question, he was starting to wonder about it now. ‘He said I’m a straight edge.’
‘I see.’
‘He said … I remind him of Threetrees.’ Realising what a pompous cock he sounded even as the words came out.
He’d definitely been expecting her to laugh at that, but she just narrowed her eyes more. ‘You’re a man can be trusted. Everyone knows that. But I can see better reasons.’
‘Like what?’
‘You were tight with Bethod and his crowd, and with Threetrees before him, and maybe Dow thinks you’ll bring him a few friends he hasn’t already got. Or at any rate a few less enemies.’ Craw frowned. Those were better reasons. ‘That and he knows Whirrun’ll go wherever you go, and Whirrun’s a damn good man to have standing behind you if things get ugly.’ Shit. She was double right. She’d sussed it all straight off. ‘And knowing Black Dow, things are sure to get ugly … What did you tell him?’
Craw winced. ‘I said yes,’ and hurried after with, ‘just while the battle’s on.’
‘I see.’ Still no anger, and no surprise either. She just watched him. That was making him more nervy than if she’d punched him in the face. ‘And what about the dozen?’
‘Well …’ Ashamed to say he hadn’t really considered it. ‘Guess you’ll be coming along with me, if you’ll have it. Unless you want to go back to your farm and your family and—’
‘Retire?’
‘Aye.’
She snorted. ‘The pipe and the porch and the sunset on the water? That’s you, not me.’
‘Then … I reckon it’s your dozen for the time being.’
‘All right.’
‘You ain’t going to give me a tongue-lashing?’
‘About what?’
‘Not taking my own advice, for a start. About how I should keep my head down, not stick my neck out, get everyone in the crew through alive, how old horses can’t jump new fences and blah, blah, blah—’
‘That’s what you’d say. I’m not you, Craw.’
He blinked. ‘Guess not. Then you think this is the right thing to do?’
‘The right thing?’ She turned away with a hint of
‘By the bloody dead.’ He looked off across the hillside, desperately searching for a finger that still had some nail left to chew at.
Shivers was standing not far off. Saying nothing. Just staring. Looking, in fact, like a man who felt himself stepped in front of. Craw’s wince became a full grimace. Seemed that was getting to be the normal shape to his face, one way and another. ‘A man’s worst enemies are his own ambitions,’ Bethod used to tell him. ‘Mine have got me in all the shit I’m in today.’
‘Welcome to the shit,’ he muttered to himself through gritted teeth. That’s the problem with mistakes. You can make ’em in an instant. Years upon years spent tiptoeing about like a fool, then you take your eye away for a moment and …
Bang.
Escape
Finree thought they were in some kind of shack. The floor was damp dirt, a chill draught across it making her shiver. The place smelled of fust and animals.
They had blindfolded her, and marched her lurching across the wet fields into the trees, crops tangling her feet, bushes clutching at her dress. It was a good thing she had been wearing her riding boots or she would probably have ended up barefoot. She had heard fighting behind them, she thought. Aliz had kept screaming for a while, her voice getting more and more hoarse, but eventually stopped. It changed nothing. They had crossed water on a creaking boat. Maybe over to the north side of the river. They had been shoved in here, heard a door wobble shut and the clattering of a bar on the outside.
And here they had been left, in the darkness. To wait for who knew what.
As Finree slowly got her breath back the pain began to creep up on her. Her scalp burned, her head thumped, her neck sent vicious stings down between her shoulders whenever she tried to turn her head. But no doubt she was a great deal better off than most who had been trapped in that inn.