The arrow stuck right through his jacket sleeve. Right through his arm inside it. This time it hurt from the start. He dropped his sword with a shriek. His weight went onto his right leg and it gave under him. He tumbled down the bank, jolts of agony shooting through his limbs whenever the ground caught at the broken shafts.
He was in the mud. Had the order in his fist still. He tried to get up. Heard the squelch of a boot beside him. Something hit him in the side of the neck and made his head jolt.
Foss Deep plucked the bit of paper out of the Southerner’s hand, wiped his knife on the back of his jacket, then planted a boot on his head and pushed his face down into the bloody mud. Didn’t want him screaming any. In part on account of stealth, but in part just because he found these days he didn’t care for the sounds of persons dying. If it had to be done, so, so, but he didn’t need to hear about it, thank you very much all the same.
Shallow was leading the Southerner’s horse down the bank into the soggy stream bed. ‘She’s a good one, no?’ he asked, grinning up at it.
‘Don’t call her she. It’s a horse, not your wife.’
Shallow patted the horse on the side of its face. ‘She’s better looking than your wife was.’
‘That’s rude and uncalled for.’
‘Sorry. What shall we do with … it, then? It’s a good one. Be worth a pretty—’
‘How you going to get it back over the river? I ain’t dragging that thing through a bog, and there’s a fucking battle on the bridge, in case you forgot.’
‘I didn’t forget.’
‘Kill it.’
‘Just a shame is all—’
‘Just bloody kill it and let’s get on.’ He pointed down at the Southerner under his boot. ‘I’m killing him, aren’t I?’
‘Well, he isn’t bloody worth anything—’
‘Just kill it!’ Then, realising he shouldn’t be raising his voice, since they was on the wrong side of the river and there might be Southerners anywhere, whispered, ‘Just kill it and hide the bloody thing!’
Shallow gave him a sour look, but he dragged on the horse’s bridle, put his weight across its neck and got it down, then gave it a quick stab in the neck, leaning on it while it poured blood into the muck.
‘Shit on a shitty shit.’ Shallow shook his head. ‘There’s no money in killing horses. We’re taking risksies enoughsies coming over here in the first—’
‘Stop it.’
‘Stop what?’ As he dragged a fallen tree branch over the horse’s corpse.
Deep looked up at him. ‘Talking like a child, what do you think? It’s odd, is what it is. It’s like your head’s trapped at four years old.’
‘My parts of speech upset you?’ Chopping another branch free with his hatchet.
‘They do, as it goes, yes.’
Shallow got the horse hidden to his satisfaction. ‘Guess I’ll have to stopsy wopsy, then.’
Deep gave a long sigh through gritted teeth. One day he’d kill Shallow, or the other way around, he’d known it ever since he was ten years old. He unfolded the paper and held it up to the light.
‘What’s the matter of it?’ asked Shallow, peering over his shoulder.
Deep turned slowly to look at him. He wouldn’t have been surprised if today turned out to be the day. ‘What? Did I learn to read Southerner in my sleep and not realise? How in the land of the dead should I know what the bloody matter of it is?’
Shallow shrugged. ‘Fair point. It has the look of import, though.’
‘It do indeed have every appearance of significance.’
‘So?’
‘I guess it becomes a question of who we know might find ’emselves tempted to fork out for it.’
They looked at each other and said it together. ‘Calder.’
This time White-Eye Hansul rode up fast, and with no hint of a smile. His shield had a broken arrow shaft in it and there was a cut across his forehead. He looked like a man who’d been in action. Calder felt sick just seeing him.
‘Scale wants you to bring your men up.’ There was no laughter in his voice now. ‘The Southerners are coming across the bridge again and this time they’ve come hard. He can’t hold out much longer.’
‘All right.’ Calder had known the moment would come, but that didn’t make it any sweeter. ‘Get them ready.’
‘Aye.’ And Pale-as-Snow strode off barking orders.
Calder reached for his sword hilt and made a show of loosening it as he watched his brother’s men – his men – stand up from behind Clail’s Wall and prepare to join the battle. Time to write the first verse in the song of bold Prince Calder. And hope it wasn’t the last.
‘Your prince-li-ness!’
Calder looked round. ‘Foss Deep. You always come upon me at my brightest moments.’
‘I can smell desperation.’ Deep was dirty, and not just from a moral standpoint. Even dirtier than usual, as if he’d dived into a bog, which Calder didn’t doubt he would have if he’d thought there was a coin at the bottom.
‘What is it? I’ve a battle to die gloriously in.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t want to stop ’em strumming ballads in your honour.’
‘They already sing songs about him,’ said Shallow.
Deep grinned. ‘Not in his honour, though. We found something might be of interest.’
‘Look!’ Shallow pointed off to the south, white teeth smiling in his mud-spattered face. ‘There’s a rainbow!’
There was, in fact, a faint one, curving down towards the distant barley as the rain slackened and the sun showed itself again, but Calder was in no mood to appreciate it. ‘Did you just want to draw my attention to the endless beauty all around us, or is there something more to the point?’
Deep held out a piece of folded paper, creased and dirty. Calder reached for it and he whipped it theatrically away. ‘For a price.’
‘The price for paper isn’t high.’
‘’Course not,’ said Deep. ‘It’s what’s written on that paper gives it value.’
‘And what’s written on it?’
The brothers looked at each other. ‘Something. We found it on some Union lad.’
‘I’ve no time for this. Chances are high it’s just some letter from Mother.’
‘Letter?’ asked Shallow.
Calder snapped his fingers. ‘Give it me and I’ll pay you what it’s worth. Or you can peddle your rainbows elsewhere.’
The brothers exchanged glances again. Shallow shrugged. Deep slapped the paper into Calder’s hand. It didn’t appear to be worth much at a glance, spotted with mud and what looked suspiciously like blood. Knowing these two, definitely blood. There was neat writing inside.
Colonel Vallimir,
General Mitterick’s troops are heavily engaged at the Old Bridge. Soon he will force the enemy to commit all his reserves. I wish you to begin your attack immediately, therefore, as discussed, and with every man at your disposal. Good luck.
Then what might have been a name but it was right in the crease, the paper was all scuffed and Calder couldn’t make sense of it. It looked like an order, but he’d never heard of any Vallimir. An attack on the Old Bridge. That was hardly news. He was about to throw it away when he caught the second block of writing in a wilder, slanting hand.
Ensure that the enemy are fully engaged before crossing the stream, and in the meantime take care not to give away your position on their flank. My men and I are giving our all. I will not have them let down.
General Mitterick, Second Division
Mitterick. Dow had mentioned that name. One of the Union’s generals. Something about him being sharp and reckless. My men and I are giving our all? He sounded a pompous idiot. Ordering an attack across a stream, though. On the flank. Calder frowned. Not the river. And not the bridge. He blinked around at the terrain, thinking about it. Wondering where soldiers could be for that order to make sense.