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

‘So …’ Stour swept his hand out towards the valley. ‘Care to point out the path?’

‘Wouldn’t presume. I know what I am, and I’m one of life’s followers.’

The king-in-waiting opened his wet eyes wide. ‘Try to keep up, then, old man.’ And he brushed past, eyes fixed on his next conquest, and Clover stepped out of the way of his scowling companions, bowing low. ‘I want to burn us another village or two before sundown!’ the Great Wolf called over his shoulder, and the young glories competed with each other to laugh the loudest.

‘What did I say?’ Wonderful leaned close. ‘Absolute prick.’

Break What They Love

Rikke wriggled her shoulders further back among the knotted roots, up to her neck in the icy river and her hair full of dirt, listening to the warriors of her enemy trudge past on the path above. By the sound of it, there were a lot of the bastards. She wondered, yet again, what would happen if they caught her. When they caught her. She tried to make her breath come slow, come even, come quiet.

What with the grinding fear for herself, and the chafing worry for everyone she knew, and the niggling pain of a hundred little knocks and scratches, and the gnawing hunger and gripping cold, it all added up to quite the shittest afternoon she’d ever had, and that with some recent savage competition.

She felt a fingertip under her jaw, pushing her mouth closed, and realised her teeth had started chattering. Isern was pressed against the bank beside her, river to her sharp chin and hair plastered to her frowning face, still as the earth, patient as the trees, hard as the stones. Her eyes rolled up from Rikke’s to the root-riddled overhang above, and she quietly slipped one finger from the water and over her scarred lips for quiet.

‘Shit,’ came a voice, so loud it seemed in Rikke’s ear, and she startled, might’ve splashed from the bank on an instinct if Isern’s hand hadn’t clamped tight about her numb arm under the water.

‘Shit … and …’ A man’s voice, getting on in years but soft and slow, like he was in no hurry. ‘There we go.’ A satisfied grunt, and a stream of faintly steaming piss came spattering into the water not a stride from Rikke’s face. Sad thing was, she was tempted to stick her head under it just for the warmth.

‘There’s all kinds of pleasures in life,’ came the voice, ‘but I’ve come to think there’s little better than a piss when you really need one.’

‘Huh.’ A woman’s voice this time, picking each word careful as a smith picks the nails for a rich man’s horseshoes. ‘Not sure whether I’ve more respect for you or less following that little revelation.’

‘It’s getting to the point …’ The stream stopped, then started up again. ‘Where I sometimes hold on to it … so when I do go …’ A few more little squirts. ‘It feels better than ever. How goes the noble clash of arms?’

‘Union are pulling back as fast as they can. Some skirmishes but there’s no real fight in ’em. No sign o’ the Dogman’s boys. Running, I reckon.’

‘Suits me well enough,’ said the man. ‘Any luck, they’ll run all the way back to Angland and we can all have a lie down.’

Rikke glanced over at Isern. She’d been right. She always was bloody right, specially when it came to disheartening predictions.

That morning they’d come upon a clearing full of corpses. A dozen or more. Men from both sides, all on the same side now. They say the Great Leveller settles all differences. Rikke had stared at those bodies, her wrist against her mouth, her breath crawling. Then she’d seen Isern, squatting over the dead like a corpse-eater from the songs, plucking at torn clothes, fiddling with buckles.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Looking for anything we can eat.’

And Rikke had set to searching herself. Trying not to look at their faces as she rooted through pockets with numb fingers. Isern had been right about that, too. Your fear, your guilt, your disgust, they all vanish once you get hungry enough. The thing that really upset her as they crept away from the dead was that they hadn’t found anything.

‘Chief!’ someone roared up on the road. ‘Nightfall! The king-in-waiting!’ And there was an approving clatter of weapons on shields.

Rikke stiffened under the water. Stiffened far as she could given she was near enough a block of ice already, and Isern pressed against her and whispered, hardly more’n a breath, ‘Shhhhhhhh …’

‘By the dead,’ she heard the woman mutter above, and then, with forced good cheer, ‘Chief! How’s the day?’

‘Bloodless so far, but it’s still early.’ The voice of Stour Nightfall himself, then. A whining sort of voice for a famous warrior. Sounded like a boy on the edge of a tantrum. ‘They’re thin sauce, these Southerners, always trickling away. The Bloody-Nine had Rudd Threetrees to fight, and Black Dow, and Harding Grim and all the rest. How’s a man meant to win a great name without great enemies to weigh it against?’

A brief pause. ‘It’s a tester, all right,’ said the woman.