“Nor mine,” said Dow. “Ain’t you getting tired of fucking your hand?” He peered back down the slope and smacked his lips. Had a light in his eyes that Dogman didn’t much like the look of. “Funny, how you don’t miss it so bad until you see it right in front of you. It’s like holding out the meat to a hungry man, so close he can smell it. Don’t tell me you ain’t thinking the same thing.”
Dogman frowned at him. “I don’t reckon I’m thinking quite the same as you are. Stick your cock in the snow if you have to. That should keep you cooled off.”
Dow grinned. “I’ll have to stick it in something soon, I can tell you that.”
“Aaargh!” came a wail from down the slope. Dogman started for his bow, staring to see if some of Bethod’s scouts had caught them out. It was just the Prince, slipped and fallen on his arse. Dow watched him rolling on his back, face all squashed up with scorn.
“He’s some new kind o’ useless, that one, eh? All he does is slow us down to half the rate we need, whine louder than a hog giving birth, eat more ’n his share and shit five times a day.” West was helping him up, trying to brush some of the dirt off his coat. Well, not his coat. The coat that West had given him. Dogman still couldn’t see why a clever man would do a damn fool thing like that. Not as cold as it was getting now, middle of winter an’ all. “Why the hell would anyone follow that arsehole?” asked Dow, shaking his head.
“They say his father’s the King o’ the Union his self.”
“What does it matter whose son y’are, if you ain’t worth no more than a turd? I wouldn’t piss on him if he was burning, the bastard.” Dogman had to nod. Neither would he.
They were all sat in a circle round where the fire would’ve been, if Threetrees had let them have one. He wouldn’t, of course, for all the Southerners’ pleading. He wouldn’t, no matter how cold it got. Not with Bethod’s scouts about. It would have been good as shouting they were there at the tops of their voices. Dogman and the rest were on one side—Threetrees, Dow and Tul, Grim propped on his elbow like none of this had aught to do with him. The Union were opposite.
Pike and the girl were putting a brave enough face on being cold, tired and hungry. There was something to them told the Dogman they were used to it. West looked like he was near the end of his rope, blowing into his cupped hands like they were about to turn black and fall off. Dogman reckoned he should’ve kept his coat on, rather than give it to the last of the band.
The Prince was sitting in the midst, holding his chin high, trying to look like he wasn’t knackered, covered in dirt, and starting to smell as bad as the rest of ’em. Trying to look like he might be able to give orders that someone might listen to. Dogman reckoned he’d made a mistake there. A crew like his chose leaders because of what they’d done, not whose son they were. They chose leaders with some bones to them, and from that point of view they’d sooner have taken a telling from the girl than from this prick.
“It is high time that we discussed our plans,” he was whining. “Some of us are labouring in the dark.” Dogman could see Threetrees starting to frown already. He didn’t like having to drag this idiot along, let alone pretend he cared a shit for his opinion.
It didn’t help much that not everyone could make sense of everyone else. Of the Union, only West spoke Northern. Of the Northmen, only Dogman and Threetrees spoke Union. Tul might’ve caught the sense of what was being said, more or less.
Dow weren’t even catching that. As for Grim, well, silence means pretty much the same in every tongue.
“What’s he saying now?” growled Dow.
“Something about plans, I reckon,” said Tul back to him.
Dow snorted. “All an arsehole knows about is shit.” Dogman saw West swallowing. He knew what was being said well enough, and he could tell some folk were running short on patience.
The Prince wasn’t near so clever, though. “It would be useful to know how many days you think it will take us to get to Ostenhorm—”
“We’re not going south,” said Threetrees in Northern, before his Highness even finished talking.
West stopped blowing into his hands for a moment. “We’re not?”
“We haven’t been since we set out.”
“Why?”
“Because Bethod’s heading back north.”
“That’s a fact,” said Dogman. “I seen him today.”
“Why would he turn back?” asked West. “With Ostenhorm undefended?”
Dogman sighed. “I didn’t stick around to ask. Me and Bethod ain’t on the best of terms.”
“I’ll tell you why,” sneered Dow. “Bethod ain’t interested in your city. Not yet anyhow.”
“He’s interested in breaking you up into pieces small enough to chew on,” said Tul.
Dogman nodded. “Like that one you was with, that he just finished spitting out the bones of.”
“Excuse me,” snapped the Prince, no idea what was being said, “but it might help if we continued in the common tongue—”
Threetrees ignored him and carried on in Northern. “He’s going to pull your army into little bits. Then he’s going to squash ’em one by one. You think he’s going south, so he hopes your Marshal Burr will send some men south. He’ll catch ’em napping on his way back north, and if they’re few enough he’ll cut ’em to pieces like he did those others.”
“Then,” rumbled Tul, “when all your pretty soldiers are stuck back in the mud or run back across the water…”
“He’ll crack the towns open like nuts in winter, no rush, and his Carls will make free with the contents.” Dow sucked his teeth, staring across at the girl. Staring like a mean dog might stare at a side of bacon. She stared right back, which was much to her credit, the Dogman thought. He doubted he’d have had the bones to do the same in her position.
“Bethod’s going north and we’ll be following.” Threetrees said it in a way that made it clear it weren’t a matter for discussion. “Keep an eye on him, hope to move fast and keep ahead, so that if your friend Burr comes blundering through these woods, we can warn him where Bethod’s at before he stumbles on him like a blind man falling down a fucking well.”
The Prince slapped angry at the ground. “I demand to know what is being said!”
“That Bethod is heading north with his army,” hissed West at him through gritted teeth. “And that they intend to follow him.”
“This is intolerable!” snapped the fool, tugging at his filthy cuffs. “That course of action puts us all in danger! Please inform them that we will be setting out southwards without delay!”
“That’s settled, then.” They all turned to see who spoke, and got quite the shock. Grim, talking Union as smooth and even as the Prince himself. “You’re going south. We’re going north. I need to piss.” And he got up and wandered off into the dark. Dogman stared after him, mouth open. Why did he need to learn someone else’s language when he never spoke more than two words together in his own?
“Very well!” squawked the Prince, shrill and panicky. “I should have expected no better!”
“Your Highness!” hissed West at him. “We need them! We won’t make it to Ostenhorm or anywhere else without their help!”
The girl’s eyes slid sideways. “Do you even know which way south is?” Dogman stifled a chuckle, but the Prince weren’t laughing.
“We should head south!” he snarled, dirty face twitching with anger.
Threetrees snorted. “The baggage don’t get a vote, boy, even supposing this was a voting band, which it ain’t.” He was finally speaking Union, but Dogman didn’t reckon the Prince would be too happy to know what was being said. “You had your chance to give the orders, and look where it’s got you. Not to mention those were fools enough to do what you told ’em. You’ll not be adding any of our names to their list, I can tell you that. If you want to follow us, you’d best learn to keep up. If you want to give the orders, well—”