The Blade Itself

“What now, chief?” Tul was asking. “What now?”

Threetrees was stooping down on the bank, washing his bloody hands in the river.

“What do we do?” asked Dow.

The old boy stood up slowly, wiped his hands on his coat, taking his time thinking on it. “South. We bury Forley on the way. We take these horses here, since they’ll be coming after us now, and we head south. Tul, you better unhitch that carthorse, he’s the only one as’ll carry you.”

“South?” asked the Thunderhead, looking confused, “south to where?”

“Angland.”

“Angland?” asked the Dogman, and he could tell they were all thinking it. “For what? Ain’t they fighting down there?”

“Course they are, that’s why I’ve a mind to go.”

Dow frowned. “Us? What have we got against the Union?”

“No, fool,” said Threetrees, “I’ve a mind to fight along with ’em.”

“With the Union?” asked Tul, his lip curling up, “with those bloody women? That ain’t our fight, chief.”

“Any fight against Bethod is my fight now. I mean to see the end of him.” Once he’d thought on it, the Dogman had never yet seen Threetrees change his mind. Never once. “Who’s with me?” he asked.

They all were. Course.

It was raining. Thin rain, making the whole world damp. Soft as a maiden’s kiss, as they say, though the Dogman could hardly remember what one of those felt like. Rain. Seemed right somehow, for the occasion. Dow was done with piling the dirt, and he sniffed and dug the spade down into the earth beside the grave.

It was a long way from the road. A good long way. They didn’t want no one finding it and digging Forley up. They all gathered round, just five now, looking down. It was a long time since they’d had anyone to bury among them. The Shanka got Logen o’ course, not too long ago, but they never had found the body. There might have been just one less in the band, but it seemed to the Dogman like there was a lot missing.

Threetrees frowned, taking a moment, thinking out what to say. It was just as well he was the chief, and had to find the words, ’cause Dogman didn’t reckon he could have found a thing. After a minute Threetrees started speaking, slow as the light fading at sunset.

“This was a weak man, here. The Weakest, that’s a fact. That was his name, and ain’t that a joke? To call a man the Weakest. The worst fighter they could find, to surrender to Ninefingers. Weak fighter, no doubt, but strong heart, say I.”

“Aye,” said Grim.

“Strong heart,” said Tul Duru.

“The strongest,” mumbled the Dogman. He had a bit of a lump in the throat, being honest.

Threetrees nodded to himself. “It takes some bones to meet your death as well as he did. To walk to it, with no complaint. To ask for it. And not for his own sake, but for others, that he didn’t even know.” Threetrees clenched his teeth and took his moment, looking down at the earth. They all did. “That’s all I’ve got to say. Back to the mud with you, Forley. We’re the poorer, and the ground’s the richer for it.”

Dow knelt down, and set his hand on the fresh-turned soil. “Back to the mud,” he said. The Dogman thought for a minute there might be a tear dripping off his nose, but it had to be only the rain. This was Black Dow, after all. He got up and walked away with his head down and the others followed him, one by one, off toward the horses.

“Fare you well, Forley,” said the Dogman. “No more fear.”

He reckoned now that he was the coward of the band.

Misery

Jezal frowned. Ardee was taking her time. She never took her time. She was always there when he arrived, at whatever spot had been arranged. He didn’t like having to wait for her one bit. He always had to wait for her letters, and that rankled as it was. Standing here like an idiot, it made him feel even more of a slave than he did already.

He frowned up at the grey skies. There were a few spots of rain falling, just to match his mood. He felt one from time to time, a tiny pin-prick on his face. He could see the drops making circles in the grey surface of the lake, making pale streaks against the green of the trees, the grey of the buildings. The dark shape of the House of the Maker was rendered hazy by them. He frowned at that building with particular displeasure.

He hardly knew what to make of it now. The whole thing had been like some feverish nightmare and, like a nightmare, he had decided simply to ignore it, and pretend it never happened. He might have succeeded too, except that the bloody thing was always looming on the edge of his vision, whenever he stepped out of the door, reminding him the world was full of mysteries he did not understand, seething just below the surface.

“Damn it,” he muttered, “and damn that lunatic, Bayaz, as well.”

He frowned across the damp lawns. The rain was keeping people away from the park, and it was emptier than he had seen it in a long time. A couple of sad-looking men sat listlessly on benches, nursing their own personal tragedies, and there were passers-by on the paths, hurrying from somewhere to wherever. One was coming towards him now, wrapped up in a long cloak.