Old Songs

  A burst of fire. Screaming men. Then steel and blood. Einar Smashednose roared for a shield wall, but it was too dark, too muddy, and it was all some men could do to find their way to the mound, let alone form a shield wall.

  The night flashed again. A spurt of fire engulfed a man who was fumbling for the axe in his belt. Wouldn’t need it now. In the light, Smashednose saw the arcanist. He was a blading, paper white man, with willow-branch arms, surrounded by several dozen of Larker’s brutes. He was chanting, hands twisting in the air as the flames once again curled around his fingers.

  Smashednose wheeled around and stood over his own men. “Bowmen,” he yelled, “Get some arrows in that arcanist!”

  He turned around to see another flash. Got his shield up and the rest of him down behind it, as he felt a wave of heat crash over him. He smelt smoke, burning leather, but as far as he could tell, none of it was his own flesh. Not yet anyway. So, he slithered back and lay flat against the mound, calling for archers again.

  This was the second time they’d come tonight, sneaking over the river in small groups, a single arcanist with them. Wasn’t meant to be a full-scale assault, even with sorcerers, Larker wouldn’t try that at night. But it was just enough to keep the men tired, enough for Larker to remind Smashednose that the night as well as the day were his. Every day of Smashednose’s continued life was being lent to him hour by hour.

  Eventually, bowstrings were loosed, and the arcanist flinched back, an arrow catching a man standing by the sorcerer’s side in the neck. The next torrent of fire splashed against the mound harmlessly. Boots squelched through the mud, and Smashednose looked over to see Silker arrive.

  “Took a second for Whiteeyes’s men to get into line, didn’t it?” Smashednose said.

  Silker nodded. “Slow without Fenris. Borke’s in charge of them.”

  “Are we ready to push?”

  Silker shrugged. “Ready as we’ll ever be.”

  That was about as much emotion as you could ever get out of Silker, so Smashednose gave the order. Arrows haled down over the arcanist, and the men surrounding him raised their shields for his protection. Then they pushed them back over what was left of the mound, fighting step by step. Wasn’t much blood spilt at this point, just a lot of shoving and Larker’s men falling back. The arcanist covered their retreat with a few errant blasts of fire, stopping Shasednose’s soldiers from pushing any further forward, and that was it. Larker’s raiding party made it back over the bridge.

  It wasn’t much of a victory. Hell, it’d been more of a loss than anything. Smashednose watched as they dragged the dead off the mound, the charred remains of fellows he knew, and some he didn’t into the dark. There was a spot near the back of camp where they lay in wait to be buried by their mates, if they had any.

  “How many is that now?” Smashednose asked Silker as the man approached him through the dark.

  “Eleven men,” Silker said. “And a dozen wounded.”

  Smashednose shook his head. “It’s not even a fucking fight. Larker knows how things are. He’s playing with us. Come morning…” Smashenose stopped talking as two men walked by holding a corpse between them. He couldn’t tell if he knew the dead man or not, but nodded respectfully as they passed. Then he turned back to Silker. But he felt tired, and the sentence wasn’t worth finishing anyway.

  “Orders, commander?” Silker asked.

  “No more surprises,” Smashednose said. “I want twice the men on watch, and have the others prepare to move. We need to be ready the second we hear a word from Fenris. Once that’s done, get some sleep. We’ll need it.”

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  No one slept. Some lay by the fires, their eyes closed, motionless and quiet, but sure as the bloody battle on the morrow, it wasn’t sleeping. Most huddled together, keeping warm from the cold that washed from the ruins behind, while staring out at the field in front. It was empty and black and silent. There were lights across the way. Larker’s camp. They burned, almost like a wall of flames, over the other side of the bridge.

  Smashednose hadn’t even bothered trying to sleep. He’d had plenty of nights’ sleep in his long years, warm and cosy, sometimes with company, paid for or not. And he’d had plenty of this. He knew which one he preferred, and yet here he was. There was a song for it. He mumbled it as he held a wet stone in his hands, even though he had finished sharpening his axe an hour ago.

  When money won’t pay for a nice warm bed,

  Then the cold is what I’ll get.

  When fire won't light in the dead of night,

  Then the cold is what I’ll get.

  When the clouds are heavy an’ the wind is blowing,

  Then the cold is what I’ll get.

  But when a hound-drawn carriage comes with red horned devil,

  Then an offer is what I’ll get.

  A pint of blood for hard, dry wood.

  A piece of heart for kindling good.

  And for all your soul?

  An eternal warmth and flowing wine in my grand hall.

  Now I’m warm.

  No wind or rain,

  Nor Frostbit nights

  Will threaten again.

  But in his hall of fire and regret,

  I lament: the cold I should have kept.

  Smashednose chuckled bitterly and finished the tune. The cold I should have kept.

  “Boss.” It was Borke and Silker.

  Borke was not a bad soldier, though Smashednose had always thought the man was a bit seedy, but maybe that was the thought of Fenris putting a bad taste in his mouth.

  “Aye?” Smashednose said.

  “No sign of Whiteeyes or the priest, but it’s been getting awful strange near the ruins. Men have been saying they’ve seen things.”

  Smashednose snorted. “What sort of things?”

  Borke was silent for a moment, scratched his chin. “Darkness…” He finally said to him.

  The old man turned to look at him, squat Borke with his scabs and patchy beard.

  “Darkness, at midnight?” Smashednose said. “Fuck me, that’s something and no mistake. What’s next, puddles on the ground when it rains?”

  Borke just shrugged. “There’s something strange, that’s all.”

  Smashednose shook his head. “It was a mistake ever taking a position in front of the walls.”

  The old warrior looked back over the river. There were two thousand men with weapons and armour, against their nine hundred, half a dozen arcanists against their none, and Larker. He was no fool. He’d had at it with Smashednose on more than one occasion, and it had always been close, had to tell who’d won even. Larker would be out to finish things this time. Now, he had them on the wrong side of the Daun, caught like a hog on the end of his spear. All the while, Smashednose’s men were jumping at fucking shadows.

  “How are the preparations going?” Smashednose said.

  “Ready to move,” Silker said.

  “As soon as Whiteeyes and that priest return with good news,” Borke added.

  “No. We’ve waited too long for Whiteeyes,” Smashednose said, staring off at the fires of Larker's camp. “Tell the men we are moving behind the walls now. If you hear any whining, you can direct them my way.”

  Borke was silent, his skin pale in the light of Smashednose’s fire. He couldn’t meet the old warrior’s eyes. But Silker, with his deep creases and a frown, simply nodded. Then the man was off, trudging through the mud.

  Smashednose glared at Borke a while, until he finally met his eyes.

  He nodded. “Yes, commander.” And he trudged away in turn.

  Smashednose waited a minute, until his fire was his own again, then he let out a slow breath between his lips, held his head with one hand. It was getting harder to wrangle the men. They were a loyal bunch on the whole, loyal to the money, loyal to drink, to victory, but that was just the problem. When things started looking sour, these men were less loyal than the conscripts caught in a press gang, and at least those sods were loyal to King and Country or some other such bullshit.

  He got up, took his axe and stood straight, like his bones didn’t ache from years of marching, like his back didn’t sting like the devil. The cold ran over Smashednose then. He felt it howling out of the ruins. It felt like he had fallen through the ice of a river. He could have given the order then, had anyone been near him, told them to leave the ruins for ghosts and fools, stay by the fires. But no one was. And by the time Smashednose left his fire, his resolve was set. The cold I should’ve kept.