The Blade Itself

The Mire scowled down at the ground. A cruel-looking sort, the Dogman thought, the type that might hang farmers, if there was one. “Aye, I’m the Mire. No need to ask your names! When they find you’ve killed some o’ the King’s collectors you’ll be dead men all!”

“Black Dow, they call me.”

The Mire’s head came up, his mouth wide open. “Oh fuck,” he whispered.

The boy kneeling next to him stared round with big eyes. “Black Dow? You what? Not the same Black Dow as… oh fuck.”

Dow nodded slowly, with that nasty smile spreading across his face, that killing smile. “Groa the Mire. You’ve all kind of work to pay for. I’ve had you in my mind, and now you’re in my eye.” He patted him on the cheek. “And in my hand too. What a happy chance.”

The Mire snatched his face away, as far as he could, trussed up like he was. “I thought you were in hell, Black Dow, you bastard!”

“So did I, but I was only north o’ the mountains. We’ve questions for you, Mire, before you get what’s due. Who’s this king? What is it you’re collecting for him?”

“Fuck your questions!”

Threetrees hit him on the side of his head, hard, where he couldn’t see it coming. When he turned round to look, Dow cracked him on the other side. Back and forth his head went, till he was soft enough to talk.

“What’s the fight?” asked Threetrees.

“We ain’t fighting!” spat the Mire through his broken teeth. “You might as well be dead, you bastards! You don’t know what’s happened, do yer?” Dogman frowned. He didn’t like the sound of this. Sounded like things had changed while they were gone, and he’d never yet seen a change for the better.

“I’ll do the questions here,” said Threetrees. “You just keep your tiny mind on the answers to ’em. Who’s still fighting? Who won’t kneel to Bethod?”

The Mire laughed, even tied up like he was. “There’s no one left! The fighting’s over! Bethod’s King now. King of all the North! Everyone kneels to him—”

“Not us,” rumbled Tul Duru, leaning down. “What about Old Man Yawl?”

“Dead!”

“What about Sything, or Rattleneck?”

“Dead and dead, you stupid fucks! The only fighting now’s down south! Bethod’s gone to war with the Union! Aye! And we’re giving ’em a beating too!”

The Dogman wasn’t sure whether to believe it. King? There’d never been a king in the North before. There’d never been a need for one, and Bethod was the last one he’d have chosen. And making war on the Union? That was a fool’s errand, surely. There were always more southerners.

“If there’s no fighting here,” asked the Dogman, “what you killing for?”

“Fuck yourself!”

Tul slapped him in the face, hard, and he fell on his back. Dow put in a kick of his own, then dragged him up straight again.

“What did you kill ’em for?” asked Tul.

“Taxes!” shouted the Mire, with blood trickling out of his nose.

“Taxes?” asked the Dogman. A strange word alright, he barely knew the meaning of it.

“They wouldn’t pay!”

“Taxes for who?” asked Dow.

“For Bethod, who do you think? He took all this land, broke the clans up and took it for his own! The people owe him! And we collect!”

“Taxes, eh? That’s a fucking southern fashion and no mistake! And if they can’t pay?” asked Dogman, feeling sick to his guts. “You hang ’em, do you?”

“If they won’t pay we can do as we please with ’em!”

“As you please?” Tul grabbed him round the neck, squeezing with his great big hand ’til the Mire’s eyes were half popping out. “As you please? Does it please you to hang ’em?”

“Alright, Thunderhead,” said Dow, peeling Tul’s big fingers away, and pushing him gently back. “Alright, big lad, this ain’t for you, to kill a man tied up.” And he patted him on the chest, pulling out his axe. “It’s for work like this you bring along a man like me.”

The Mire had more or less got over his throttling now. “Thunderhead?” he coughed, looking round at them. “It’s the whole lot of you, ain’t it! You’re Threetrees, and Grim, and that’s the Weakest there! So you don’t kneel, eh? Good for fuckin’ you! Where’s Ninefingers? Eh?” jeered the Mire. “Where’s the Bloody-Nine?”

Dow turned round, running his thumb down the edge of his axe. “Gone back to the mud, and you’re joining him. We’ve heard enough.”

“Let me up, bastard!” shouted the Mire, struggling at his ropes. “You’re no better’n me, Black Dow! You’ve killed more folk than the plague! Let me up and give me a blade! Come on! You scared to fight me, you coward? Scared to give a fair chance are yer?”

“Call me coward, would you?” growled Dow. “You who’s killed children for the sport of it? You had a blade and you let it drop. That was your chance and you should have took it. The likes o’ you don’t deserve another. If you’ve anything to say worth hearing you best say it now.”

“Shit on yer!” screamed the Mire, “Shit on the pack of—”