“You are straying from the point, Isern.”
Isern cleared her throat. “’Tis a failing common in my family. Return us to the matter.”
“It’s not Stour’s mother I’m after, but his father.” Rikke turned back to the kneeling men. “You fellows help me out, you’ll find me reasonable. More reasonable than Stour fucking Shitefall, leastways.”
“Shitefall,” chuckled Isern, shaking her head.
“Now, where’s Black Calder?”
The one on the left, a sour-looking old bastard with a scar through his short grey hair, lifted his head to sneer up at her. “Fuck yourselves, you mad bitches.”
Rikke raised her brows at Corleth. Corleth raised hers back. “Fuck yourselves, he says.”
“I heard him,” said Rikke. “Guess there might be time for that later. Just a celebratory finger or two. But right now, I’m a little busy stealing your city. Where’s Black Calder?”
“Didn’t you fucking hear me?” He bared his teeth. “I said—” Isern grabbed him by the hair and stabbed him in the side of the neck, chopped his throat out with an easy flick of the wrist and sent black blood squirting, shoved him down into the gutter with her boot on his back.
It was good to be forgiving, but this was the North still. Rikke’s father never liked killing. Hadn’t stopped him doing it when he had to. It wouldn’t stop her, either.
“Might be there was a lot to like about him, once you broke through the gritty crust.” Rikke gave a sigh as she watched him squirm under Isern’s boot. “Might be he had a collection of interesting bird skulls, or an excellent singing voice, or a lot of love for his sadly passed sister that caused him to weep at the quiet times.” Rikke looked at the rest of the men, all of them staring over with wide eyes. “But there’s so much to feel sorry for in the world. Can’t waste too much on folk who act like pricks.”
The sour-looking bastard had stopped moving and Isern reached down, wiped her dagger on the arse of his trousers, got distracted by her reflection in the bright blade, frowned as she rubbed at a smudge of something on her cheek.
Rikke stepped sideways, before the spreading pool of blood reached her feet, to stand in front of the next man. She’d always thought of herself as a figure of fun. Giggling Rikke, fountain o’ laughs. Still seemed strange people might be scared of her. But she had to admit there was something satisfying about the fear in his eyes. Beat contempt, anyway.
“I like your look better,” she said, wagging her finger at him.
“Pleasant-seeming personage, this one,” said Isern, tapping him on the shoulder with her dagger. “Family man, if I might take a guess?”
“Two daughters,” he croaked out.
“Aw,” said Rikke. “How old?”
“Six and two.”
“Aw,” said Corleth.
“Those girls need their daddy,” said Rikke. “I’m hopeful you’ll be helpful.”
“Hopeful you’ll be helpful.” Isern gave a little chuckle. “That’s got a nice balance.”
“Always had a feel for the poetry of language,” said Rikke. “Now, where’s Black Calder?”
The eyes of the father of two daughters flickered sideways, straining towards Isern’s dagger, just out of sight. “Not here,” he croaked.
“Well, don’t worry, we’re making progress. Where is he?”
“Went north to the High Valleys. Some of the chieftains up there are worried about the way Stour’s running things.”
“Aren’t we all?” said Isern. “I mean, I’m an arsehole from a family of arseholes, but that Stour? He sets new standards.”
Rikke nodded towards the gates of the inner wall. The gates with Skarling’s Hall beyond, still tight shut. “So who’s in charge in there?”
“Brodd Silent.”
Name meant nothing to Rikke. She shrugged at Isern, and the hillwoman shrugged back.
“My guess would be he don’t say much,” said Corleth, which seemed a reasonable assumption.
“He ain’t got many men, though,” said the father of two. “No more’n a couple of dozen.”
“Maybe three dozen,” offered one of the others, shuffling forward on his knees. Here was a sad lesson. You can talk fine words till your tongue bleeds and never get a favour. Cut one throat and everyone’s falling over themselves to be helpful.
“Three dozen’s not many,” said Isern.
“No.” Rikke scratched her head as she frowned up at the black battlements against the white sky. “But he don’t need many to hold that.”
Common Ground
“So sorry I’m late,” said Orso, striding into the room. The table was set for a royal dinner, silverwear gleaming. “So much to do, you understand. Well, of course you understand, you’ve an army of your own to manage. And bigger even than mine! Don’t get up!” Hildi struck a match and began to light the tall candles as Orso trotted over to offer his hand, smiling hugely. His mother had always told him it was important to smile. Especially at your enemies.
Brock was not much changed. Every bit the chunkily handsome storybook hero that Orso remembered. He had grown something of a beard, but then he probably grew a beard between breakfast and lunch, even those bits at the corners of the mouth that Orso could never quite get to come through. Frozen uncomfortably between rising and staying seated, Brock looked at the proffered hand with an air of puzzled disgust. Like a man who had rolled over to find a turd in his bed. Then he reluctantly reached for it.
“Not too firmly!” said Orso. “Remember I’m no warrior!” When Brock’s hand gingerly gripped his, he gave it as bone-crushing a squeeze as he could manage and was mildly gratified to see him wince. Small victories, perhaps, but Orso’s father had always said one must take all the victories one can get.
Brock gestured to the two men he had brought with him, standing grimly against the wall. “These are my aides—Antaup…” Lean and handsome, with that slicked-back black hair which somehow always let a rakish lock or two drop over the forehead. “And Whitewater Jin.” A rugged, red-bearded Northman who looked to have been opening doors with his face most of his life.
Orso grinned at them, too. Grins were free, after all. “Are there any small Northmen? I’ve never seen one!”
“We keep ’em at the back,” growled Jin.
“Lucky for them! I’ll be at the back myself, if it comes to fighting, I can promise you that, eh, Tunny?”
Tunny gave an approving nod. “Well in the rear, Your Majesty.”
“How about you, Young Lion? You’ll be leading by example, I daresay?”
“I daresay,” said Brock stiffly.
“Corporal Tunny and Colonel Gorst you know, of course, and this is Hildi, my—” Orso frowned. “What the hell are you, Hildi? My butler? My jester?”
“Your parasite,” she said as she lit the last of the candles and neatly wafted out the match. “I’m only here till you pay what you owe me—”
“For the Fates’ sakes, you know I’m good for it.” Orso gave a weary sigh as he dropped into his chair. “But that’s being king. Everyone wants a little piece of you. You’ll find out. If you win.”