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

‘Doing the best we can,’ grumbled the other boy, whichever one he was.

‘That’ll be a comfort to your mothers when you’re killed for not attending to my wisdom.’ Clover let his hand hover over the basket of apples, then plucked out one he liked the look of. Nice blush to it. He took a bite and sucked out the juice.

‘Tart,’ he said, baring his teeth, ‘but tolerable. Like life, eh, lads? Like life.’ They stared at him blankly. He heaved a weary sigh. ‘Back to it, then.’

They shambled unhappily out into the sun and turned to face each other.

‘Yah!’ The dark one dashed in, swinging his stick.

‘Urgh!’ The blond one parried, stumbling back.

Clack, clack, as the sticks knocked together. Coo, coo, went a cuckoo in the trees behind. Somewhere men were arguing over something, but so far off their voices were no more than a comforting burble. Clover wedged one hand behind his neck and wriggled back against the tree.

Sometimes, it could feel like life wasn’t so bad.

Then he gave an unhappy grunt. Then a twitch. Then a grimace. Problem was, these students of his were about the most terrible swordsmen he ever saw. The blond one swung, swung, swung, teeth clenched, while the dark one snarled and burbled, more running away than defending, both already out of breath.

‘Stop!’ He sat up, tossing his half-eaten apple away. ‘For the dead’s sake, stop!’

The boys stuttered to a halt, sticks wobbling down.

‘No, lads, no.’ Clover shook his head. ‘Very much no. You’re going at each other like a dog at a bitch. Wild and wayward. You’ve got to put more thought into this moment than any other. All your thought and all your effort, because everything you’ll ever have is apt to be snatched away in the next breath. Your lives are hanging in the balance!’

‘They’re just sticks,’ said the blond one.

Clover rubbed at his temples. ‘But we’re pretending they’re swords, you halfhead. I’m not a bloody stick teacher, am I?’ The dark-haired boy opened his mouth and Clover held up a silencing hand. ‘Don’t answer that. Just take some time. Your dinner ain’t getting cold, is it?’

‘You said strike fast.’

‘Aye, once you strike, like lightning! But think before you strike, eh?’

‘Why don’t you come and show us?’ asked the dark one.

‘Out there in the sun?’ Clover chuckled to himself. ‘I didn’t become a bloody teacher so I could get up and do it my bloody self.’

‘But …’ The blond boy shaded his eyes with his hand. If Clover had been the dark one, he’d have smashed him right then when he wasn’t looking. But the dark boy just stood there picking his nose. No initiative, these little bastards. ‘Aren’t you going to show us some … what do you call it … technique?’

‘Technique.’ Clover laughed. ‘Technique is what we come to last. So far, you two are only just holding the sword by the right end.’

‘It’s a stick,’ said the blond one, frowning at his stick. ‘The ends are the same.’

Clover ignored him. ‘It’s a mindset I’m trying to teach you. A winning way of looking at the world.’

The dark boy was so baffled, he looked almost in pain. ‘It’s about hitting him with a sword, ain’t it?’

Clover took a slow breath in and slowly blew it out. ‘First of all, it’s about deciding when to, and when not to. In the end … the only thing a man can really do … is pick his moment. Watch for the opening, and recognise it when it comes, and seize it.’ And Clover snatched at a handful o’ nothing and shook his fist. ‘Picking your moment. That’s the secret. You understand?’

The dark boy looked doubtful. ‘My da always said it was all in the grip.’

‘Aye. Well. If you had no grip, the sword would just drop out of your hand.’

The boys stared blankly at him again. Clover sighed again.

‘To it once more, lads, and this time pick your moment.’

Clack, clack went the sticks. Tock, tock went a woodpecker in the trees behind. The snap of a stick in the brush and Clover slipped the knife from its sheath at his back and held it down behind his arm.

Another footstep and Clover reached out, without looking around, and tipped the basket of apples towards the newcomer.

‘Apple?’ he asked.

Black Calder was standing there, rubbing at that little scar on his chin as he watched the two boys swinging away and not picking their moment in the least. ‘No,’ he grunted.

‘Hard day, Chief?’

‘You get to my position, they all are.’

Clover looked back to the demonstration of how not to use a sword, knife already put away and his hands clasped across his belly. ‘Reckon that’s why I prefer my position.’

‘Huh.’ Calder worked his mouth, a little sourly in Clover’s opinion, and said in a voice sharp with sarcasm, ‘Don’t get up.’

‘I haven’t.’

Calder worked his mouth even more sourly. He was a sour sort these days, given how much life had given him, or how much he’d managed to claw from it, leastways. Time was he’d had a fine sense of humour, but the more men get, the sourer they tend to turn, and Black Calder had almost the whole North. His brother Scale might wear the king’s chain, but everyone knew Black Calder made the king’s choices.