A Little Hatred (The Age of Madness #1) - Joe Abercrombie Page 0,154

sudden, and weak, and helpless, and Rikke felt sorry for her, and sorry for what she’d done, but there was no undoing it. You might see the past with the Long Eye. But you can never go there.

She shrugged so high her shoulders were tickling her ears, then let them flop helplessly down. ‘Maybe he’ll win?’

A Fool’s Weapon

‘The bloody fool!’ snarled Calder, stalking through the village.

‘Aye.’ Clover sighed as he followed. ‘Bloody fool.’

The muddy place was crawling with Scale’s warriors, men armed and angry and used never to backing down. They soon scrambled aside, though, when they saw Black Calder coming with a face like thunder.

‘I loved my wife, Clover,’ he growled. ‘Loved her more than my own life.’

‘Well … that’s a good thing, I guess?’

‘That was my great weakness.’

‘Ah.’

‘I loved her, and she died, and all that was left of her was our son.’

‘Oh.’

Calder strode on towards the chieftain’s hall the King of the Northmen had made into his temporary tavern. ‘So I indulged him, and I spoiled him, and on the many occasions when I should’ve given the bloody fool the beating he deserved, I saw her face in his face and I couldn’t do it.’

‘Might be a bit late to spank him now,’ murmured Clover.

‘We’ll fucking see,’ said Calder, shoving the doors of the hall wide and storming through.

King Scale was drinking. What else would he be doing? He was drinking, and laughing lustily at stories of the battle, already bloating out with lies like so much watered beer. His nephew, the mighty Stour Nightfall, decorated with a few fresh cuts and bruises, grinned to hear of his own exploits, even more at the falsehoods than the facts. About these two heroes, old warriors and young basked in the sunny radiance of a victory they hadn’t won yet.

They fell silent as Calder strode in, carrying no weapon but with his face sharp as a drawn sword. ‘Get. Out.’

The old cunts and the young bristled, grumbled, looked to their respective masters, and Scale puffed his vein-threaded cheeks and gestured to the door. Up they got, out they filed, giving Clover his usual serving of scorn while he beamed back his usual good humour. The doors were shut on their performance, leaving only four in the room. King Scale Ironhand, his brother Black Calder, his son Stour Nightfall. And Clover.

Quite the party.

‘My loving family, all together!’ sang Calder in a voice rich with scorn.

Stour was all preening dismissal. ‘Father—’

‘Don’t “Father” me, boy! You approve of this madness, do you, Scale?’

‘We’re at war, brother.’ The King of the Northmen looked calmly at Calder from under his grey-streaked brows. ‘And in war, yes, I approve of warriors fighting.’

‘It’s how they fight and when that’s the issue! You’d put all our gains at risk! All our work!’ Meaning all Calder’s work, since Scale had done nothing but drink at the back and Stour nothing but strut at the front. ‘You’re our future, Stour! The future of the North! We can’t risk you—’

‘You said the same when I fought Stranger-Come-Knocking!’ Stour waved his father away like a cobweb. ‘He’s too dangerous, we can’t risk you, you’re all our futures.’ He put on a parroting whine which was, to be fair, not too bad a match for Calder’s prating. ‘But I beat him! Like the Bloody-Nine beat Shama Heartless, when no one said he could!’ And his chest puffed and his eyes twinkled, like a cock that spies another in his yard. ‘This Union child isn’t half the warrior Stranger-Come-Knocking was! Not one quarter!’

‘The Young Lion, they call him, and my spies tell me he’s formidable. How often have I said to you – never fear your enemy, but always respect him? Every duel is a risk and we don’t need to gamble. The enemy are fought out and we have fresh warriors. Flatstone can come around on the flank and the ground is—’

‘Enough strategy.’ Scale wrinkled his nose as if the word smelled. ‘Back in winter, you told me the war would be won in spring. In spring, you told me it would be won in summer. In summer, by autumn. Last week, you told me the war was won now. That you’d out-thought that Union bitch and outfought the Dogman. Seems the Union bitch is a sharper thinker and the Dogman a tougher fighter than you reckoned. What if you misjudge ’em again, and you can’t finish ’em before the weather turns, and the sluggardly King of the Union wakes up