There weren’t many children in Uffrith and those there were thought she was cursed and wouldn’t come near her on account of the fits. Leo didn’t seem worried about the fits. Maybe he would be once he saw her having one. Specially if she shat herself during, which was more often than not, sadly. But there wasn’t much she could do about that. About the fits or the shits.
Rikke had sworn an oath not to worry about the things she couldn’t change, and she took an oath very seriously. Her father always said there was nothing more important than your word, usually while frowning and shaking his head. It was a shame he frowned so much, ’cause when he smiled it lit the world up.
“My turn to hide!” shouted Leo, and he dashed off, slipped and fell, rolled in a shower of hay dust, then scrambled up and disappeared through the barn door. Made Rikke sad, for some reason, to see him go. So sad.
“No,” she said to herself, closing her eyes. “This happened long ago.”
An Infinite Supply
“How’s my stance?” asked Flick, peering over his shoulder at his back foot.
“We’ll get to your stance,” said Clover.
“In about a year, at this rate,” muttered Downside, holding the edge of his axe up to the sunlight then polishing away at it again.
“If you last a year.” Sholla frowned as she tried to cut the finest slice of cheese imaginable with that long, thin knife of hers.
“Don’t listen to this sorry pair,” said Clover. “We’ll get to your stance. But always bear in mind, if your sword’s drawn, you’ve already made at least one mistake.”
“Eh?” said Flick, squinting at Clover over the wobbling point of his blade.
“Unless you’re cleaning it, or sharpening it, or maybe selling it.”
“What if you’re in a battle?”
“Then you’ve made at least two mistakes, possibly a lot more. A battle’s no place for a self-respecting warrior. But if you must attend one, at least have the good taste to be where the fighting isn’t.”
“What if some bastard tries to kill you?”
“Ideally, you’d have worked that out a while back and done ’em first, preferably while they’re asleep. That’s what knives are for.”
“That and slicing cheese,” said Sholla, lifting her knife towards her mouth with furious concentration, a cheese-shaving so fine it was almost see-through clinging to the flat. A spring gust came through the courtyard just as it was getting to her lips and blew it away like thistledown, left her clutching helpless at the air.
“That’s the thing about knives,” said Clover. “Cheap to get and with endless applications. Swords are dear as all hell and they’ve got just the one, and it’s one every man should avoid.”
Flick crunched up his face. “You’re sort of talking yourself out of a job here, far as the teaching of sword-work goes.”
“Aye, but life being what it is, mistakes happen. That’s when an understanding of sword-work might save your worthless hide from an unsightly hole or two, as it’s saved mine on a couple of regrettable occasions. So, to the stance—”
“Clover!”
Greenway came strutting across the yard like he was the one that built it and was highly delighted with the achievement, thumbs in his belt and his elbows pointing out, as if you could tell a man’s quality by the amount of space he took up.
“I fucking hate this prick,” murmured Sholla as she tried to shave an even thinner slice from the edge of the cheese block, then clicked her tongue in disgust as it crumbled.
“You’re a fine judge of character,” said Clover, giving Greenway a cheery wave hello as he approached, sneering at Flick. Since Magweer’s untimely demise, he’d taken on the role of Stour’s chief sneerer.
“Who’s this?” he sneered.
“This is Flick. I’m teaching him how to use the blade. Or how not to.”
“He looks a bloody idiot,” said Greenway.
“Aye, well, there’s a short supply of men clever as you. Have to make do with what we’re given. Stour ready for me?”
“The king, you mean.”
Clover stared back blankly. “Aye, the king I do mean. Stour is the king and the king is Stour. We were both there when he hung the chain round his neck, weren’t we?” They’d both been there and they’d both been bloody.
Greenway shifted his thumbs in his sword-belt. “One o’ these days you’ll say too much, Clover.”
“Well, the mud’s waiting for us all. Worse ways to get there than excessive conversation. Now, shall we take the news to the Great Wolf?” He nodded at the sack, which had drawn the attention of at least half of Carleon’s flies. “Bring that along, eh, Flick?”
The lad wrinkled his nose. “You sure? It’s got quite the odour.”
“That’s the way of things, lad, we all end up stinking. And yes, I’m sure. It’s not for my benefit, I can tell you that.”
“Stay out o’ trouble, eh, Chief?” grunted Sholla, eyes fixed on her knife and her cheese.
“Believe it or not, I’ve spent fifteen years trying.”
“What the bloody hell are you about, anyway?” Downside was asking as Clover went to answer the king’s call.
“If you get it right,” murmured Sholla, “it just melts on your tongue…”
Flick looked like he was about to swing the sack over his shoulder, saw the stains and decided against. He wasn’t strong enough to hold it at arm’s length, though, so it ended up knocking against one knee as he walked with a wet clumping. “Never met a king,” he said.
“No?” said Clover. “I’d have thought you’d be in daily contact with royalty.”
“Eh?”
“Just keep your mouth shut and smile.”
Flick made a gurning rictus of the lower half of his face.
“Smile, I said. You’re not trying to sell him your teeth.”
There was a lot that hadn’t changed in Skarling’s Hall since Skarling’s time. The big creaking doors with their great iron hinges, the high rafters, the tall windows, the bright, cold sun beyond and the sound of rushing water far below. Skarling’s Chair was the same one Bethod, and Black Dow, and Scale Ironhand had sat in, hard and simple, paint worn off the time-polished arms and flaking from the back.
The man sitting in it was new, though. Stour Nightfall, who men called the Great Wolf, with his left leg hooked over one of the arms and the bare foot gently swinging, a very fine wolfskin cloak about his shoulders and grinning like a wolf indeed. Why wouldn’t he smile? Got everything he wanted, hadn’t he? No longer king-in-waiting but king all the way, and all he’d had to do was stab his uncle in the throat.
Everything boiled over with menace in there. The faces of the young warriors, unsmiling, like life was a contest at having the least fun. The flames in the great fireplace stabbed angrily. Even the cups on the tables seemed to be nursing a slight. There was this horrible quiet, everyone holding their breath, expecting violence to strike like lightning any moment.
“You should be kneeling,” growled Greenway as they stopped in the midst of that wide stone floor in front of Stour.