“You sure about this?” murmured Shivers. “Not too late to turn back.”
Rikke frowned at him. “Never marked you as a turner-backer.”
Shivers only shrugged. He was a tough man to offend. Maybe living with a wound like his made harsh words seem harmless. “I’m for whatever works.”
“Well, you’re a big man, so you wouldn’t understand. When you’re small, you have to take chances. We might not get another chance like this.”
Shivers frowned at the warriors gathered, and slowly nodded. “Aye, I reckon.”
“Besides.” And Rikke leaned close, and nudged him in the ribs with her elbow, which was something like nudging a tree trunk. “It’ll turn out sweet.” She pulled down her cheek so her left eye popped at him. “I’ve seen it. Now get ’em ready, I’ve a mind to speechify.”
“You really seen it?” murmured Isern in her ear.
“All you know is what I say I’ve seen. And I say I’ve seen it.”
Isern winked. “There’s the Long Eye for you.”
“Listen!” Shivers was calling, but his whispery voice didn’t have much poke to it and no one heard. “Listen!” But it was quieter than last time if anything. He took another breath.
“Open your ears, you fucking maggots!” screamed Isern-i-Phail, so loud Rikke flinched at it. But silence fell, and everyone turned towards her. So many faces, choking the square and the streets about it. More of her people than she’d ever seen gathered in one place. More than she’d known she had. Made her heart swell, to see them come out on her say-so. She thought of how proud her father would’ve been as she clambered up on the wall beside Isern, and it gave her a lump in her throat. She pushed back the hood she’d made from Savine’s red cloth and tried to scrub some life into her flattened hair with her fingernails.
“You know I’m one of you!” she screeched, voice a bit broken. “I’ll confess I look a touch odd these days, and maybe I am a touch odd, but you know I’m one of you. Born in Uffrith. Raised in Uffrith. Hope to die in Uffrith. Hope that last’ll be some ways off still.” A bit of laughter at that, a whoop or two and some light drinking. Rikke waved ’em down. “My father did all he could to keep this place free!”
“The Dogman!” someone roared, and there was a respectful mumble and grumble of his name repeated.
“Fought all his life so we could choose our own way. But here we are, still stuck ’twixt the Union and the North. It’s like we’ve a foot on either boat, but now the two are going different ways on the current, and if we don’t jump to one or the other we’re apt to get torn in two.” She grimaced and grabbed her crotch. “And in the most sensitive spot!” More laughter at that. Make ’em laugh, you’re halfway there, her father always told her.
“But now we’ve got a chance to win our freedom for good!” She reached out, like there was something in the air she could nearly grasp. “It’s there! Right in front of us! All we need is the bones to take it! And we will. I know we will!” She made a ring out of her finger and thumb, and held it to her left eye, and peered at them hard through the centre. “I’ve seen it!”
She flung up her arms and all those folk thrust their spears in the air and roared with one voice, all bound together in this grand adventure. All ready to risk everything to grab this chance. They were still cheering when she hopped down from the wall.
“Nice speech,” croaked Shivers, stroking his sore throat.
“Aye,” muttered Rikke, “but no one ever died from talking a good fight.” She rubbed at her own neck like she could rub away the nerves that had gathered there. “Fighting one’s another matter.”
The rain had started coming not long after dawn, spitting down on the milling crowds of warriors. Warriors from every part o’ the North where they called Stour Nightfall king. Which was pretty much all of it.
There were tough Thralls in studded leather with spear or bow. There were stout Carls in bright mail with axe and shield. There were Named Men whose helm and hilt and harness glinted with jewels. There were wild men from the distant North with furs and warpaint. There were tattooed savages from out past the Crinna with their crooked standards of bone and hide. There were thousands of the bastards.
They’d been flooding into the fields around Carleon for weeks. From up here on the roof of the gatehouse, Clover could see the muddy stain of their camps spread all the way up the far side of the valley. But the last day of summer was coming fast and the camps were emptying now, little trickles of men joining to become streams, flowing down towards the road south where they became a marching river. Steel gleamed with wet as the drizzle fell, here and there the standards of one War Chief or another flapping over the throng.
Stour watched this almighty mess with his arms folded, nodding like a baker seeing the bread rise just the way he wanted. “Ever see a weapontake like this, did you?”
Clover shrugged. “I’ve seen a few, and by and large they were about like this one. Lots of men turning up with weapons. Sort of the point of the thing.”
Stour gave him a withering glance. “I meant, have you ever seen one so big.”
“I admit this is the biggest.” Apart from the one when Bethod went to war against the Union. Or the one when the Union went to war against Black Dow. But he doubted Stour wanted to hear that, and once you’ve seen a man starve one poor bastard after another in a cage, you get quite sensitive to what he wants to hear. Which Clover imagined was the point o’ the exercise.
“We’re going to show those Union bastards something,” snarled Stour. “On their own ground, this time. Never fought ’em in Midderland, eh?”
“No.” Clover didn’t bother to say that men usually fight harder on their own ground. He doubted Stour wanted to hear that, either.
Being honest, he wasn’t sure why the young King of the Northmen kept him close. He liked to think he was looked on as some noble mixture of bodyguard, advisor and mentor. In truth, the role probably tended more towards jester. But what can you do but play the role you’re given?
“You’re set on this, then?” Black Calder stepped from the staircase and out onto the gatehouse roof, grey-streaked hair plastered to his pale frown by the rain. He looked sourer by the day. Like milk left out in the sun.
Stour spread his arms to gather up that whole vast host. “Send ’em home now, they’ll be so disappointed!”
“I had a visit from Master Sulfur.” Calder rubbed worriedly at his grey stubble. He’d been pouring worry, doubt and scorn on the whole business ever since the first man turned up. “He’s not happy with this. And that means his master won’t be happy, either.”
Stour gave a snort. “Just as well my business ain’t making wizards happy. Be a frustrating bloody line o’ work, eh, Clover?”
“I guess,” murmured Clover, who found making kings happy frustrating enough.
“Daresay you can look after things while I’m gone,” said Stour, clapping a hand on his father’s back.
“Managed well enough before you arrived,” growled Calder, shaking him off. “Though you haven’t left me much to look after things with.” And he glanced about the damp roof at the smattering of greybeards, bald-chinned boys and battle-maimed cripples who’d be guarding Skarling’s Hall while their king was off polishing his legend.