‘Nobody get killed, aye?’ He looked around ’em all as he pressed Scorry’s hand. They all shook their heads, gave frowns or nervous grins, said ‘no’, or ‘aye’, or ‘not me’. All except Brack, sat staring out towards the trees like he was on his own, sweat beading his big, pale face.
‘Don’t get killed, eh, Brack?’
The hillman looked at Craw as if he’d only just realised he was there. ‘What?’
‘You all right?’
‘Aye.’ Taking Craw’s hand and giving it a clammy press. ‘’Course.’
‘That leg good to run on?’
‘I’ve had more pain taking a shit.’
Craw raised his brows. ‘Well, a good shit can be quite punishing, can’t it?’
‘Chief.’ Drofd nodded over towards the light beyond the trees and Craw hunched a little lower. There were men moving out there. Mounted men, though only their heads and shoulders showed from where Craw was crouching.
‘Union scouts,’ whispered Wonderful in his ear. Dogman’s lads, maybe, worked their way through the fields and the farmhouses and were casting out towards the treeline. The forest the whole length of the valley was crawling with armed and armoured Northmen. It was a wonder they weren’t seen yet.
Dow knew it, ’course. He coolly waved his axe over to the east, like he was asking for some beer to be brought over. ‘Best tell Reachey to go, ’fore they spoil our surprise.’ The word went out, that same gesture of Dow’s arm copied down the line in a wave.
‘Here we bloody go again, then,’ grunted Craw between chewing on his nails.
‘Here we go,’ Wonderful forced through tight lips, sword drawn in her hand.
‘I’m too old for this shit.’
‘Yep.’
‘Should’ve married Colwen.’
‘Aye.’
‘High time I retired.’
‘True.’
‘Could you stop fucking agreeing with me?’
‘Ain’t that the point of a Second? Support the Chief, no matter what! So I agree. You’re too old and you should’ve married Colwen and retired.’
Craw sighed as he offered his hand. ‘My thanks for your support.’
She gave it a squeeze. ‘Always.’
The deep, low blast of Reachey’s horn throbbed out from the east. Seemed to make the earth buzz, tickle at the roots of Craw’s hair. More horns, then came the feet, like distant thunder mixed with metal. He strained forwards, peering between the black tree trunks, trying to get a glimpse of Reachey’s men. Could hardly see more than a few of Osrung’s roofs across the sun-drenched fields. Then the war cries started, floating out over the valley, echoing through the trees like ghosts. Craw felt his skin tingling, part fear at what was coming and part wanting to spring up and add his own voice to the clamour.
‘Soon enough,’ he whispered, licking his lips as he stood, hardly noticing the pain in his leg no more.
‘I’d say so.’ Whirrun came up beside him, Father of Swords drawn and held under the crosspiece, his other hand pointing towards the Heroes. ‘Do you see that, Craw?’ Looked like there might be men moving at the top of the green slopes. Gathering around a standard, maybe. ‘They’re coming down. Going to be a happy meeting with Golden’s lads out in those fields, ain’t it?’ He gave his soft, high chuckle. ‘A happy meeting.’
Craw slowly shook his head. ‘Ain’t you worried at all?’
‘Why? Didn’t I say? Shoglig told me the time and place of my death, and—’
‘It’s not here and it’s not now, aye, only about ten thousand bloody times.’ Craw leaned in to whisper. ‘Did she tell you whether you’d get both your legs cut off here, though?’
‘No, that she didn’t,’ Whirrun had to admit. ‘But what difference would that make to my life, will you tell me? You can still sit around a fire and talk shit with no legs.’
‘Maybe they’ll cut your arms off too.’
‘True. If that happens … I’ll have to at least consider retirement. You’re a good man, Curnden Craw.’ And Whirrun poked him in the ribs. ‘Maybe I’ll pass the Father of Swords on to you, if you’re still breathing when I cross to the distant shore.’
Craw snorted. ‘I ain’t carrying that bastard thing around.’
‘You think I chose to carry it? Daguf Col picked me out for the task, on his death-pyre after the Shanka tore out his innards. Purplish.’
‘What?’
‘His innards. It has to go to someone, Craw. Ain’t you the one always saying there’s a right way to do things? Has to go to someone.’
They stood in silence for a moment longer, peering into the brightness beyond the trees, the wind stirring the leaves and making them rustle, shaking a few dry bits of green down onto the spears, and helmets, and shoulders of all those men kneeling in the brush. Birds chirping in the branches, tweet bloody tweet, and even quieter the distant screaming of Reachey’s charge.
Men were moving on the eastern flank of the Heroes. Union men, coming down. Craw rubbed his sweaty palms together, and drew his sword. ‘Whirrun.’
‘Aye?’
‘You ever wonder if Shoglig might’ve been wrong?’
‘Every bloody fight I get into.’
Devoutly to be Wished
Your August Majesty,
General Jalenhorm’s division has reached the town of Osrung, seized the crossings of the river with the usual focused competence, and the Sixth and Rostod Regiments have taken up a strong position on a hill the Northmen call the Heroes. From its summit one receives a commanding view of the country for miles around, including the all-important road north to Carleon, but, aside from a dead fire, we have seen no sign of the enemy.
The roads continue to be our most stubborn antagonists. The leading elements of General Mitterick’s division have reached the valley, but become thoroughly entangled with the rearmost units of Jalenhorm’s, making—
Gorst looked up sharply. He had caught the faintest hint of voices on the wind, and though he could not make out the words there was no mistaking a note of frantic excitement.
Probably deluding myself. I have a talent for it. There was no sign of excitement here behind the river. Men were scattered about the south bank, lazing in the sun while their horses grazed contentedly around them. One coughed on a chagga pipe. Another group were singing quietly as they passed around a flask. Not far away their commander, Colonel Vallimir, was arguing with a messenger over the precise meaning of General Jalenhorm’s latest order.
‘I see that, but the general asks you to hold your current position.’
‘Hold, by all means, but on the road? Did he not mean for us to cross the river? Or at least arrange ourselves on the bank? I have lost one battalion across a bog and now the other is in everyone’s way!’ Vallimir pointed out a dust-covered captain whose company was stalled in grumbling column further down the road. Possibly one of the companies the regiments on the hill were missing. Or not. The captain was not offering the information and no one was seeking it out. ‘The general cannot have meant for us to sit here, surely you see that!’
‘I do see that,’ droned the messenger, ‘but the general asks you to hold your current position.’
Only the usual random incompetence. A team of bearded diggers tramped past in perfect unison, shovels shouldered and faces stern. The most organised body of men I’ve seen today, and probably his Majesty’s most valuable soldiers too. The army’s appetite for holes was insatiable. Fire-pits, grave-pits, latrine-pits, dugouts and dig-ins, ramparts and revetments, ditches and trenches of every shape, depth and purpose imaginable and some that would never come to you in a month of thinking. Truly the spade is mightier than the sword. Perhaps, instead of blades, generals should wear gilded trowels as the badge of their vocation. So much for excitement.