Whirrun only smiled as he shrugged his huge sword off his shoulder. ‘I have a tune for every occasion.’
The other two women drew their swords. Golyin’s curved blade appeared to be made of black shadow, curling and twisting so its shape was never sure. Sarabin Shin smiled at Shev and raised her own sword, long, and thin, and smouldering like a blade just drawn from the forge. Shev hated swords, especially ones pointed at her, but she rarely saw one she liked the look of less than that.
She held up the hand that didn’t have the knife in. ‘Please, girls.’ She wasn’t above begging. ‘Please! There really is no upside to this. If we fight, someone will die. They will lose everything. Those who win will be no better off than now.’
‘She is a pretty little thing,’ said the scarred one.
Shev tidied a bloody strand of hair behind her ear. ‘Well, that’s nice to-’
‘But she talks too much,’ said Golyin. ‘Kill them.’
Shev flung her knife. Sarabin Shin swept out her sword and swatted it twittering away into the mist as she charged screaming forward.
Shev rolled, scrambled, ducked, dodged, dived while that smouldering blade carved the air around her, feeling the terrible heat of it on her skin. She tumbled more impressively than she ever had with that travelling show, the flashes of Javre’s sword at the corner of her eye as she fought Golyin, the ringing of metal crashing on her ears as Whirrun and Ahum traded blows.
Shev flung all the knives at her disposal, which was maybe six, then when those were done started snatching up anything to hand, which, after the last fight, was a considerable range of fallen weapons, armour and gear.
Sarabin Shin dodged a hastily flung mace, then an axe, then carved a water-flask in half with a hissing of steam, then stepped around a flapping boot with a hissing of contempt.
The one hit Shev scored was with a Northman’s cloven helmet, which bounced off Shin’s brow opening a little cut, and only appeared to make her more intent on Shev’s destruction than ever.
She ended up using the fallen saddle as a shield, desperately fending off blows while the snarling woman carved smoking chunks from it, leaving her holding an ever smaller lump of leather until, with a final swing, Shin chopped it into two flaming fist-sized pieces and caught Shev by her collar, dragging her close with an almost unbelievable strength, the smoking blade levelled at her face.
‘No more running!’ she snarled through her gritted teeth, pulling back her sword for a thrust.
Shev squeezed her eyes shut, hoping, for the second time that day, that against all odds and the run of luck she would find a way to creep into heaven.
‘Get off my partner!’ came Javre’s furious shriek.
Even through her lids she saw a blinding flash and Shev jerked away, gasping. There was a hiss and something hot brushed gently against Shev’s face. Then the hand on her collar fell away, and she heard something heavy thump against the ground.
‘Well, that is that,’ said Whirrun.
Shev prised one eye open, peered down at herself through the glittering smear Javre’s sword had left across her sight. The headless body of Sarabin Shin lay beside her.
‘God,’ she whimpered, standing stiff with horror, clothes soaked with blood, hair dripping with blood, mouth, eyes, nose full of blood. Again. ‘Oh, God.’
‘Look on the sunny side,’ said Javre, her sword already sheathed in its ragged scabbard. ‘At least it is not-’
‘Fuck the sunny side!’ screamed Shev. ‘And fuck the North, and fuck you pair of rutting lunatics!’
Whirrun shrugged. ‘That I’m mad is no revelation, I’m known for it. They call me Cracknut because my nut is cracked and that’s a fact.’ With the toe of his boot he poked at the corpse of Ahum, face down beside him, leaking blood. ‘Still, even I can reckon out that these Templars of the Silver Order-’
‘Golden,’ said Javre.
‘Whatever they call themselves, they are not going to stop until they catch you.’
Javre nodded as she looked about at the King of the Northmen’s dead agents. ‘You are right. No more than Bethod will stop pursuing you.’
‘I have nothing pressing,’ said Whirrun. ‘Perhaps we could help each other with our enemies?’
‘Two swords are better than one.’ Javre tapped a forefinger thoughtfully against her lips. ‘And we could fuck some more.’
‘The thought had occurred,’ said Whirrun, grinning. ‘That was just starting to get interesting.’
‘Wonderful.’ Shev winced as she tried to blow the blood from her nose. ‘Do I get a vote?’
‘Henchpeople don’t vote,’ said Javre.
‘And even if you did,’ added Whirrun, giving an apologetic shrug, ‘there are three of us. You’d be outvoted.’
Shev tipped her head back to look up at the careless, iron-grey sky. ‘There’s the trouble with fucking democracy.’
‘So it’s decided!’ Whirrun clapped his hands and gave a boyish caper of enthusiasm. ‘Shall we fuck now, or … ?’
‘Let us make a start while there is still some daylight.’ Javre stared over the fallen corpse of her old friend Golyin, off towards the west. ‘It is a long way to Carleon.’
Whirrun frowned. ‘To Thond first, so I can pay my debt to you.’
Javre puffed up her chest as she turned to face him. ‘I will not hear of it. We deal with Bethod first.’
With a sigh of infinite weariness, Shev sank down beside the puddle, took up the bloody rag she had used earlier and wrung it out.
‘I must insist,’ growled Whirrun.
‘As must I,’ growled Javre.
As though by mutual agreement they seized hold of each other, tumbled wrestling to the ground, snapping, hissing, punching, writhing.
‘This is hell.’ Shev put her head in her hands. ‘This is hell.’
Wrong Place, Wrong Time
Westport, Spring 580
Canto Silvine finished his morning slice of bread and honey, licked his finger, used it to sweep up the crumbs from the plate, and smiled as he sucked it clean. The quiet joy of routine. It was something Mauthis was very keen on, routine. Canto tried to be keen on the same things powerful people were. He thought, perhaps, that might one day make him like them. He had no other ideas how to achieve it, anyway.
He frowned at a honey spot on his sleeve. ‘Damn it!’ Mauthis would be less keen on that, presentation being key, but any more time dithering and he would be late. And if Mauthis hated one quality above all others in a clerk, it was tardiness. He stood, trying desperately to make no noise, but the legs of his chair caught on the uneven boards and made an awful grinding.
‘Cantolarus!’ hissed Mimi’s voice from the other room, and Canto winced. Only his mother used his full name. Only his mother, and his wife when she meant to give him a lecture. As she padded into the room with their son in her arms she had her serious eyes out, that slight wrinkle between the brows that he’d loved to see before he married her, but which had steadily lost its appeal over the months since. To begin with, that wrinkle had come when she told him how their life would be when they were married. Now it came when she told him how far their actual life fell short of what they had agreed.
‘Yes, my love?’ he said, in a tone that tried to laugh her off and reassure her both at once, and achieved neither.
‘How long do you expect us to stay here?’
‘Well, certainly until I get back from work!’ He gave a nervous titter.
She did not. Rather, that wrinkle deepened. There was a loud bang on the ceiling, followed by the burble of raised voices from above, and Mimi’s eyes rolled up towards it. Damn bad timing, for those bastards to start arguing just then. If Canto was half a man he would have gone up there and had a stern word with them about it. So Mimi told him. But Canto was not half a man. Mimi told him that, too.
‘This was supposed to be temporary,’ she said, and their son gave a quivering stretch as though attempting to pile more guilt on Canto’s sagging shoulders.