08 A Little Hatred: Book One (The Age of Madness)

‘They’re still there, my prince, if a little shrivelled. But I don’t think with ’em any more.’

‘My nephew beat Stranger-Come-Knocking in the Circle,’ said the king, blowing some froth from his ale. ‘He can beat some Union fool.’

‘Who was it took your hand, brother?’ said Calder. ‘Some Union fool, as I recall?’

Scale didn’t anger, just smiled to show his missing front teeth. ‘You’re wise, brother. You’re cunning. Just like our father. What I have I owe to your wits and your ruthlessness and your loyalty, I know that. There are many things you understand far better than me. But you’re no fighter.’

Calder’s lip curled with contempt. ‘You haven’t fought a man in twenty years! You only want to watch him fight so you can relive your lost glories. You’re fat as a—’

‘Yes, I’m fat as a hog and twenty years past my best and I daresay quite the figure of fun for most. But there is one thing you’re forgetting, brother.’ Scale hooked his thumb under his golden chain and lifted it so the great diamond dangled, sparkling with the flames in the firepit. ‘I am our father’s eldest son. I wear his chain. I am king!’ He let the chain fall, and slapped his good hand down on Stour’s shoulder. ‘I name Stour Nightfall not only as my heir but as my champion. He’ll stand for me in the Circle, and fight for Uffrith and all the land between the Cusk and the Whiteflow. That’s the end of it.’

Stour broke out that wet-eyed grin of his. ‘Perhaps you should leave the warriors to their talk, Father. We’ve the choice of weapons to discuss.’

Calder stood quiet a moment longer, face a rigid mask. ‘Warriors,’ he hissed, like it was the worst insult he could think of, then turned on his heel and stalked from the room.

Stour lifted his ale cup. ‘By the dead, when the mood’s on him, he can bleat like a fucking sheep—’

There was a sharp crack as Scale slapped him, knocking the cup from his hand and sending it spinning across the floor. ‘You’d be wise to treat your father with respect, boy!’ snarled the king, his great finger shoved in Stour’s shocked and pinking face. ‘Everything you have you owe to him!’ There was a long silence, then Scale gave the golden pommel of the heavy sword he wore a fond pat. ‘Call me old-fashioned, but I still favour a sword. What do you say, Clover?’

‘I say a sword’s a fool’s weapon.’

Stour was rubbing his face with his fingertips, looking at his uncle through narrowed eyes. Now he turned them on Clover. ‘You carry one.’

‘I do.’ Clover picked at his own battered pommel with a fingernail. ‘But I try never to draw it.’

Scale threw up his hands, the iron and the flesh. ‘You make your living teaching other folk to use one!’

‘They pay me to learn. But I always start by telling ’em never to fight with one. Come at a man with a sword, he’ll see you coming, and if a man you mean to kill sees you coming then you’re going about it all wrong.’

‘There’s no hiding in the Circle.’ Stour turned away from Clover in disgust. ‘In the Circle, the other man’s always ready.’

‘That’s why I’d stay even further from the Circle than I would from the sword,’ said Clover. ‘Money, land, fame, friends, even your name – lose them but keep your life, with time and hard labour you can always win ’em back.’ He’d lost his name, hadn’t he? And won a new? He could still smell the sweet clover in his nose as he lay there in the Circle, waiting for the end. ‘But there’s no beating the Great Leveller. No man comes back from the mud.’

Stour gave a hiss of disgust. ‘Fucking coward’s words.’

‘A live coward can find his courage another day. A dead hero …’ Clover liked to talk, but sometimes silence says more. He let it stretch a moment longer, then smiled. ‘Still. I daresay you’ll have it your way, Great Wolf.’

And he followed Black Calder out of the hall.

Hopes and Hatreds

‘They packed him in a box,’ said Jurand, staring sadly into the fire.

‘Who?’ asked Glaward.

‘Barniva. To be sent back to his family.’

Whitewater winced, prodding at a big bruise he’d picked up in the battle. ‘I guess that’s what they do. With dead men.’

‘They packed him with salt, but I daresay he’ll be ripe by the time he gets there—’

‘Are you auditioning for his part as the war-weary one?’ snapped Leo, not enjoying this conversation at all. Not wanting to think about Barniva’s death. Not wanting to think about what part he might’ve had in it. ‘I’ve got a bloody duel to win. They might be packing me in a box this time tomorrow!’

‘But they won’t need to send you anywhere,’ said Whitewater, brow crinkling with puzzlement. ‘Your mother’s in the camp.’