08 A Little Hatred: Book One (The Age of Madness)

Rikke bit off damp bread, chewed it in her sore mouth, eyes creeping back to that slowly turning body. ‘Can’t say I’m seeing it.’

‘Nor me, I will admit.’

‘Should we cut him down?’

‘Doubt he’ll thank us.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Honestly, he’s not had much to say for himself. Could be one of your father’s men, hanged by Stour Nightfall’s. Could be one of Stour Nightfall’s, hanged by your father’s. Not much difference now. The dead fight for no one.’

One of her father’s men? Had Rikke known him, then? How many folk she knew were killed, these last few days? She felt the ache of tears at the back of her nose, sniffed it up hard.

‘How much more of this can we take?’ And she knew her voice was getting shrill and cracked but couldn’t stop herself.

‘Can I take?’ asked Isern. ‘I was six when my da first sent me to cut arrows from the dead. I can take as much as there is. Can you take? If you fall down and can’t get up, we’ll have riddled out your limit. Until then …’ She looked off through the trees, picking at her berry-stained teeth with a fingernail. ‘We can’t sit still. Nor make it up into the hills to my people. So we must find the Union, or your father’s men, and they’re all backing off towards the Whiteflow quick as goats before a wolf. We have to move faster than they are, and the enemy are between us and them, so the further we go, the more dangerous it gets. We’ll be marching for days, still. Weeks, even.’

Weeks of marching through bog and bramble, dodging bitter enemies, eating worms and sleeping under hanged men. Rikke felt her shoulders slump.

She thought of her father’s hall in Uffrith. The faces carved in the rafters and the meat dripping gravy into the firepit. The hounds begging with their sad eyes and their chins on her knee. The songs sung of high deeds done in the sunny valleys of the past. Her father getting dewy-eyed at every mention of Threetrees, and Thunderhead, and Black Dow, even, raising his cup when a voice rumbled out the name of the Bloody-Nine.

She thought of the Named Men ranged along both sides of the firepit. All smiling at some joke of hers. Some song of hers. That Rikke, she’s a funny one. You wouldn’t want your own daughter wrong in the head, but she’s funny.

She thought of wandering comfortably drunk into her room, and her own warm cot with the blanket her mother made, and the pretty things she’d found placed nicely on the shelf, and the pretty clothes all dry and beautiful in the chest.

She thought of the steep streets of Uffrith, cobbles shining from the rain, and the boats on the grey harbour, and the people gabbling in the market, and the fish sliding glistening from the nets as the catch came in.

She knew she’d been unhappy there. She’d said it so often, even she was tired of her moaning. Now she rubbed at the torn and stinking fur on her cloak and wondered how she could’ve been so hurt by cold words and sharp looks. Seemed foolish and childish and weak. But that’s what growing up is, maybe. Realising what a fucking arse you’ve been.

By the dead, she wanted to go back to the safe and warm, and instead of being hunted just be scorned, but Rikke had seen Uffrith burn. It might be that the Long Eye can peek into the past, but of one thing there’s no doubt – you can never go there. The world she’d known was gone and wasn’t coming back any more than that dead man dangling, and the world she was left with was bitter chill and a mean bully besides.

She couldn’t help herself. So hungry and cold and sore and scared and with more of the same the best she could hope for. She stood with her numb hands dangling, and her shoulders shaking, and the tears silently trickled down her face and dripped from her nose and brought the faint taste of salt to her waggling lower lip.

She felt Isern step close. Put a gentle hand on her shoulder. Take her chin, and tip it up, and speak in a softer voice than she’d ever heard her use before. ‘D’you know what my da would say, whenever I cried?’

‘No,’ warbled Rikke, slobbery with snot.

With a sharp and shocking smack, Isern slapped her across the face.

Rikke blinked, jaw hanging open, putting one hand to her burning cheek. ‘What the—’

‘That’s what he would say.’ Isern shook her, hard. ‘And when that is the answer to your tears, you soon learn to stop mewling and attend to what has to be done.’

‘Ow,’ muttered Rikke, her whole face throbbing.

‘Yes, you’ve had hardships. The sickness and the fits, and the being thought mad and blah, blah, blah. But you were also born with all your limbs and a fine set of teeth in your pretty face, the only child of a powerful chief, with no mother and a hall full of soft-headed old warriors doting upon you.’

‘That’s not bloody fair—’

She gasped as Isern slapped her again, even harder, hard enough that salt blood joined salt tears on her lips.