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

‘Makes for a sad story, but I daresay she’d see it differently. She’s used to taking charge, Leo, now she’s helpless. She’s scared, I reckon.’

‘She’s scared? I’m the one has to fight the Great Wolf! She should be here!’

‘You’ve spent weeks moaning that she’s always at your shoulder. Now you’ve stepped from her shadow you miss her? By the dead, the Young Lion shouldn’t need his mother.’

Leo took a long breath and blew it out. ‘You’re right. All my life, I wanted to fight in the Circle.’ He clutched at his head. ‘Bloody hell, Rikke, why did I ever want to fight in the Circle?’

She caught him by the wrists, pulled them down. ‘No one remembers how the fight was won, only who won it. Fight hard.’

‘I will.’

‘Fight dirty.’

‘I will.’

‘The lion beat the wolf.’

‘I know.’

‘No. You don’t.’ She took his face now, with both hands. ‘The lion beat the wolf. I’ve seen it.’ Her big, pale eyes were full of certainty, and he took heart from that. Started to feel braver. To feel himself again. The Young Lion! She was just what he needed then. A spring of belief in a desert of doubt. It’s like they say, every good man needs a good woman beside him. Or under him, anyway.

‘I bloody love you,’ he said. Her brows shot up. Almost as high as his. Why had he said that? Swept off by whatever emotion blew his way, like his mother always said he was. ‘I mean … I don’t mean love love,’ he stammered. What the hell did he mean? What did you call it, when a woman was your lover and your friend? It had never happened to him before. ‘Or … maybe I do mean that—’

‘Then promise me one thing.’ She put her hand around the back of his head and dragged him close, so their noses were almost touching. ‘Promise me you’ll kill the bastard.’

He bared his teeth. ‘I promise. Killing the bastard is the whole point. For you. For your father. For Ritter. For Barniva …’ He smiled. ‘Barniva’s sword. That’s what I’ll take.’

‘Good choice, I reckon.’

He felt another wave of sadness as he glanced down to the bridge, followed quickly by a shiver of nerves. ‘I just hope it brings me more luck than it did him.’

‘You don’t need luck.’ Rikke twisted his face back towards her and kissed him, gentle and serious, and full of belief. ‘I’ve seen it.’

Folk were already gathering at the appointed place. Seemed the rivers of blood spilled yesterday had only sharpened the thirst for more. Losing a duel himself had much diminished Clover’s taste for the business, but he’d been asked to hold a shield for the heir to the North and that was reckoned quite the honour. Felt prudent to at least arrive in good time.

A patch of grass had been shaved to the roots not far from the bridge where the fighting had been hottest, the Circle marked out with pegs and rope, six good strides across. Carpenters had knocked up some seating on platforms so the big folk would get a good view of everyone’s futures being settled. So Black Calder and Scale Ironhand, and the Dogman and Lady Brock wouldn’t miss a drop of blood spilled. Be a shame for it to hit the dirt unnoticed, after all.

Good weather for it. Blue washing out to pale on the horizon as the sun sank wearily towards the hills. A great arrow of geese was honking off southwards, high up, not caring much for the doings of men. Not caring much who won or lost, who lived or died. Good to know the geese’d still be flapping regardless, though it would likely be scant comfort to whichever hero got a sword up his arse.

The men who held the shields around the Circle, making sure no one left till the business was settled, were meant to be the fiercest warriors either side could find and, to be fair, the younger ones were shooting some warlike glares across the shortened grass. The older ones had seen it all before, though, and saved their snarls for when they mattered. For all they stood on different sides, some of Scale’s and the Dogman’s Named Men were chatting like old friends. Clover knew most o’ the names. Red Hat and Oxel, Flatstone and Brodd Silent, Lemun the Chalk from up near Yaws and Gregun Hollowhead from the West Valleys. The Nail, too, pale hair stuck up like thistle-fluff, bound all over with bloody bandages from yesterday’s fighting.

Strange, in a way, for men who’d been fixed on killing each other a few hours before to be happily mingling, stamping and blowing and polishing their shield-rims, mulling over fights long past, the fight just done and the fight to come. But then warriors on different sides always had more in common with each other than with anyone else.

‘Loneliest o’ professions,’ murmured Clover to himself. Shepherds might not make many friends, but they weren’t often called upon to kill the ones they had made, either.