‘Who was it?’
‘An old chieftain, dead, in a high hall lit with candles. Men gathered about the body, looking down. All of ’em wondering what they could get from it. Like they were dogs, and that dead old man was the meat.’ That fear grew worse and worse and Rikke’s eyes got wider and wider. ‘I have to go home.’
‘You think it was your da?’ asked Isern.
‘Who else could it be?’
Shivers was frowning hard, sun gleaming on his metal eye. ‘If it is … there’s no telling who’ll seize power in Uffrith.’
Rikke winced at the thumping in her head. ‘All shadows where their faces should’ve been. But I saw what I saw!’
‘You’re sure?’ asked Orso.
‘I’m sure.’ Rikke groaned as she pushed herself up onto one elbow. ‘I’ve got to go back to the North. And the sooner the …’ She realised everyone was looking at her. And everyone was a hell of a lot of people right then. She wrinkled her nose at an unpleasant smell. ‘Ah, by the dead …’
My Kind of Bastard
‘How’s the leg?’
Scale laughed, and slapped his nephew’s wounded thigh, and made him wince.
‘Better’n it was,’ said Stour as he stretched it out under the table.
‘You’re lucky, boy.’ Scale took another swig from his cup, ale leaking out into his beard. Clover would’ve thought a man who drank as much as he did would’ve got better at it, but the bastard couldn’t seem to stop spilling. ‘The Young Lion could’ve killed you.’
‘Aye.’ Stour frowned at the floor, still a trace of yellow bruises around his eyes. ‘I’d have killed him, if things had gone the other way.’
‘Daresay you would’ve.’ And Scale chuckled and beckoned for more ale. His old bastards had something smug about them now, and Stour’s young ones something grudging. When their master lost, they’d all lost a little themselves. A little pride, anyway. It’d been a long time since Clover had seen pride as aught but a handicap, yet some men still loved it more than gold.
‘The king seems oddly pleased about his champion’s defeat,’ muttered Wonderful, almost without moving her lips.
‘Aye,’ said Clover. ‘Maybe ’cause it gives him a chance to wag his finger and harp on the hubris of youth and go over all he’s learned in a long career of draining ale cups.’
‘Even though he was every bit as keen on a duel as Stour.’
‘That’s kings for you. The shit ideas are always someone else’s.’ Clover watched Stour rubbing at his hurt leg. Seemed more tame puppy than Great Wolf now. Thoughtful. Subdued, even. ‘Looks like defeat might’ve finally taught our king-in-waiting some lessons, mind you.’
‘Like it did you?’
‘Failure’s the best schoolmaster, they say.’
Wonderful nodded, looking out at the room from under her grey-flecked brows. ‘So the war’s over.’
‘Seems so,’ said Clover. ‘A lot of men dead, and nothing much changed.’
‘That’s war for you. Turns out best for the worst of us. No doubt we’ll have another presently.’
‘I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘And in the meantime? Back to teaching sword-work?’
‘Can’t think of aught else I’m fit for that I can do sitting down. You?’
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.