Chapter Thirty-Nine - Breathe

‘Red?’

Dagge stared up at him, swaddled in a worn old jerkin twice his size, blunt blade hanging limply from his hand. Cadven blinked, setting his feet, and nodded.

‘Yaahhhh!’ the skinny boy cried, charging forward. Cadven flicked his blade aside with an easy twist of his wrist, and Dagge lost balance, tumbling into the ashy dirt with a yelp. His sword went skittering from his hand, scratching little puffs of frozen powder from the grey ground. Cadven frowned, gritting his teeth. Whole place was dry as coal dust.

‘Fuck.’ Dagge groaned, rolling onto his back. The training yard was barely bigger than the recruits’ quarters, pressed in on three sides by a maze of leaning timber. On the fourth, the eastern gate, the sheer face of the Teeth, and the smooth black stone of the abandoned stormtower, stabbing up into a sky thick with formless grey cloud. Wind howled over the jagged rocks, shrill as a scream in the eerie snowlessness of the air, and the recruits staggered back and forth across the grey dirt in their training jerkins, stabbing and slicing and heaving at each other clumsily with an assortment of blunt, notched blades. They’d been at it since dawn, and the dirt was churned to miniature dunes at their feet. The Master of Arms, an angry looking man with a tangled grey beard below his bald head and skin thick as reinforced leather, was prowling between them, barking orders, ugly purple veins bulging against his smooth scalp.

‘Get up.’ Cadven told Dagge bluntly.

‘It’s too heavy!’ the boy whined, panting. ‘I can’t.’

Cadven looked down at him in the dirt. He considered helping him, for a moment, then settled for a scowl instead, stepping back.

‘Get up, before Kol sees you.’

Dagge looked worriedly at the Master of Arms, then scrambled wearily to his feet, dragging his notched practice sword out of the dust. Again he charged, again he ended up on his arse. Cadven ground his teeth.

‘Again.’

Nearby, one of the other boys gave a cry and slumped into the dirt, holding a glove to his bloody nose.

‘You broke my nose, you cunt!’

His partner, a tall boy with a sweep of blonde hair and hairless, pockmarked cheeks, shrugged.

‘Exiles don’t give a fuck about your nose.’ Master Kol growled, prowling past them. ‘On your feet!’

The boy staggered upright, wiping the blood from his chin, and the big youth with the pockmarked face was on him again, chopping at his guard like an angry lumberjack. Cadven frowned.

‘Again.’ he told Dagge, and the skinny boy set his jaw, charging gamely. Cadven stepped aside, and he stumbled, tripped into empty air, falling onto his face in the dust once more.

‘On your feet!’ Kol bellowed from beside them, veins bulging furiously. Dagge started, dragging himself upright, and stood there, blinking, sword hanging wearily from his slender arm.

‘Don’t just stand there!’

Dagge flinched as he spoke, then lurched forward, giving a cry and swinging his blade for Cadven’s flank. Cadven knocked the clumsy blow away, and Dagge swung again, and again, panting and spluttering and gasping as his blade met nothing but air and steel. Even Cadven was starting to lose his breath, a little, now. Air was thin as fucking parchment, up here. Dagge panted, grimacing. He had both hands on his sword, now, but he could still barely lift the point out of the dirt. He gave one final cry, heaving the blade upward, but Cadven flicked it away again, and it flew skittering into the dusty dirt. Dagge slumped to his knees, gasping for air.

‘Dead.’ Kol told him. He reached out a hand to help him up, and Dagge grabbed at it, but he pulled it away again, shoving the skinny boy back into the dirt.

‘Exiles won’t give you a hand. Won’t wait while you fetch your blade, neither.’

The other boys had stopped sparring now, staring at him. Dagge’s cheeks were red as beets, eyes fixed on the ground. Kol turned away from him, stalked over the discarded sword, and picked it up in one scarred hand.

‘This is your ticket back through the Teeth. Without it, you’re food for the Grey. Ain’t no one going to save you if you can’t save yourself.’

He hefted the sword in his hand, twirling it, like it weighed no more than a switch.

‘Little Lordling here does well enough against pups like this wretch.’ he said, levelling the blade at Cadven. ‘But Exiles ain’t no pups. They’re rapers, murderers. Killers. Worst of the worst. Want to live, pups? You gotta be worse!’

He leapt forward, quick as a spring, aiming a savage swipe for Cadven’s throat. Cadven got his sword up just in time, but the old warrior was on him again, left, right, overhand, stabbing, cutting, slicing, quicker than he had any right to be. Cadven staggered back across the churned grey dirt, dull blade ringing like a bell. He could feel the other boys watching him. Feel their eyes boring into his skin. Master Kol growled, surging forward, spittle flying from his sneering lips. Cadven ground his teeth. There was something hot in his belly, hotter than flame. He frowned, forcing himself to breathe. The Master of Arms came on, and he let himself be driven back, holding him off. Breathe.

Then the old man tripped, stumbled, suddenly losing his feet. Cadven took his eye off him. Just for a moment. Didn’t matter though. It never did. The old man was already surging upward, feet sure as stone, smashing Cadven’s sword from his numb fingers. It thudded away into the dirt, and then there was steel at his throat, pressing bluntly at his skin. The old man stared at him down the blade, veins bulging furiously, and Cadven stared back, unflinching. Breathe. He could feel their eyes on him. All of them. Biting, whispering, clawing. Kol stared at him, and Cadven stared back, and the blade pressed deeper into his skin. Breathe.

‘Dead.’ the Master of Arms said at last, letting the sword drop. Cadven didn’t move. He could still feel the imprint of the blunted steel on his skin, cold as ice. But the heat in his belly was gone. The wind howled overhead, raking the black stones, and the other boys stood perfectly still, staring, sparring forgotten. Kol was still staring at him. Daring him. Moments dragged by, and the wind whistled like a scream. Then, at last, the old warrior turned away, fixing the other boys with his hard eyes.

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‘We’re done for the day.’ he bellowed. ‘Out, all of you!’

They scrambled over each other in their haste to be away, swords rattling as they were returned to the rack. Cadven followed a little behind the rest, ignoring the Master of Arm’s eyes boring holes into his back, fists clenched tighter than stones in his sleeves.

*

‘What about you, Red?’

Cadven blinked, looking up from his food. Dagge was staring at him over the table, smiling. He frowned.

‘What?’

‘Well fuck me, he does speak.’ one of the other boys laughed. Cadven tried to ignore them. The food hall was hotter than a furnace, and smelled like sour meat and sweat, but no one was complaining. Anything beat freezing out there in the cold. The recruits were clustered into a back corner of the room, pressed in by the throng of scarred, angry-looking men and women in their wind-worn furs. Cadven stared at his bowl, trying to decide what animal they’d cut the gristly strings in the ugly brown broth from, and realised he had no clue.

‘Leave him be.’ Dagge was saying. ‘Not everyone likes to talk as much as you do, Olle.’

‘I see how it is.’ the other boy snorted, then winced, holding a bloody rag to his broken nose. ‘Lordling’s got no words for the likes of us.’

A smattering of laughter from the other boys. Dagge scowled.

‘Leave it!’

‘Alright, Alright.’ Olle told him. His mud-coloured hair was cut short around his ears, and his sharp cheeks were ruddy, skin still half-smeared with blood. There was an ugly unevenness to his features, even before the broken nose. ‘I was only joking. Meant nothing by it.’

Cadven grunted, and went back to his broth.

‘Well?’

Cadven looked up to find Dagge staring at him again, that same clueless grin on his tiny little head. He clenched his jaw.

‘Well, what?’

‘What do you think the Captain got Exiled for?’

They all stared at him. Cadven looked back at his bowl.

‘Don’t know.’

‘Got a real way with words, don’t he?’ Olle said, grinning, and got a few more laughs for his trouble. ‘I heard she got caught leading a priate ship on the Sea of Storms.’

‘Not likely.’ Dagge snorted, leaning closer over the table. ‘I heard she got in a scrap with some King’s Men. Killed four of them before they could get the irons on her. That’s how she lost her eye, too. Gave her a good poke once they had her tied up.’

Olle rolled his eyes. ‘’Cept there weren’t no King’s Men up here before the War, were there?’

‘Lord’s Men then, whatever.’

‘I heard she was a whore in Jotheim.’ one of the other boys chimed in, grinning. ‘Got the rot from some eager noble. Took her eye first, if you catch my meaning.’

More laughter. Cadven took another mouthful of grisly broth, wincing. At least it was hot.

‘More interested in how she got back, anyways.’ one of the boys was saying.

‘I heard she climbed the Teeth with nothing but two sticks and a yard of rope.’

‘Are you cracked? Heard she seduced one of the gate guards. Opened up the gate for her then and there.’

‘All the same.’ Olle interjected. ‘Takes a real bitch to escape then spend the rest of her days keeping the rest out.’

‘One of the men told me she went reaving himself, a few months back.’ Dagge whispered. ‘Killed more than the rest of them altogether.’

‘Don’t know why they bother. They say it’s so cold out there in winter it’ll make your lungs freeze.’

‘It’s always winter, out there. Dead Forest ain’t barely trees at all anymore. Been frozen solid for centuries. All dead and dry. Ain’t natural.’

‘I heard there’s more than cold out there to worry about.’ Dagge said nervously.

‘You mean other than the murderers and rapers?’

‘Yes... I mean.’ Dagge frowned, looking down at his bowl. ‘Well, you seen the tower.’

‘Ain’t no one in it though, is there?’

‘You know what I mean. Greycloaks put it there. Why do’you reckon they did that?’

‘Cos they was half-fucking-mad, if I heard it right.’ Olle laughed.

‘Ma says they have magic.’ Dagge said stubbornly, lowering his eyes.

‘Then why are they all dead?’ one of the other boys snorted.

‘They ain’t!’

‘Don’t matter. Wherever they are, aren’t doing us any good, are they.’ Olle interjected, rolling his eyes.

‘No… just…’

‘Just what?’

‘Just that there’s old magic out there, beyond the mountains.’

The other boys glanced amongst themselves nervously. Olle snorted again, rolling his eyes.

‘Your ma tell you that? Grey’s got enough problems without you adding bonemen and fucking sorcerers to ‘em. Nothing up here but the cold, and what we send into it.’

Cadven frowned into his bowl. Bonemen. Sorcerers. Bullshit. These pups knew nothing. Just enough to be afraid. Afraid of what was out there beyond the Teeth. Afraid of the empty cold, the wind, the wretches they sent out there into the Grey to die. Cadven didn’t care what was out there. He wasn’t here to make a name.

‘Fuck me, but this hurts.’ Olle groaned, wiggling his broken nose between two fingers. ‘Nasty cunt, that lad.’

Cadven looked towards the other end of the table. A small cluster of boys had separated themselves from the other recruits, scowling angrily into their bowls. The tall blonde youth was with them, almost a head taller than the rest, pockmarked cheeks ruddy. As Cadven looked, he lifted his head from his bowl, glaring back at him with dark eyes.

‘Sten.’ Dagge told them. ‘From Jotheim, that one.’ he added, as though that explained everything. A few of the other boys nodded knowingly, and Cadven ground his teeth.

‘Needs someone his own size to pick on.’ Olle moaned, wincing again.

‘Bet Lordling here would give him a beating.’ Dagge replied, grinning. ‘Better with a sword than my ma with a needle.’

‘Can’t be that good then. I’ve seen your clothes.’

‘That sword of yours, too.’ Dagge went on, ignoring him. ‘Probably cut the blunt spoons they give us to pieces.’

‘Got a nice blade, has he.’ Olle asked, raising an eyebrow. ‘One of them fancy moonsilver ones from his daddy, like the other old Lords?’

Cadven didn’t reply. Under the table, his fingers flexed, tightening.

‘Nah, that’s the King’s folk, not the Highlanders.’ one of the other boys was saying. ‘Mad bastard Aerolf lost it, anyway. In the war.’

‘Blood mad, that one, my da said. Ain’t your brother got the madness, too, Red?’

Cadven’s jaw clenched under his cheek. Seemed they weren’t going to let him swallow the foul-smelling, mystery-meat stew in peace. Didn’t mean he had to talk back to them, though. Or answer their questions.

‘Shut it, already.’ Olle interjected. ‘Up here, he’s same as the rest of us, long as he pays his way.’

A few of the other boys nodded agreeably, closing their mouths for the moment. At the other end of the table, the tall blonde youth and his gaggle of angry faces leered back from their steaming bowls, and Cadven said not a word, going back to his broth.

*

That evening, once the other boys were sound asleep, Cadven sat awake in his cot, staring at the dying fire.

He stared at it until the embers dwindled into gleaming nubs, until the shimmer of the heat stilled to a murmur. Then he stared some more. He never had been very good at sleeping. Not that it wasn’t worse now, but it never had been easy. The dreams made him remember, and remembering was pain.

Sleeping was one thing, but he did have a gift for silence. The quietness of a reluctant tongue, of watching eyes. Silence kept the heat away. Even now, he could still feel the whisper of it in his gut, setting his hair on end. It didn’t matter where he was. It never left him alone for long.

But the other boys were sleeping, snoring, snuffling in their furs. That made the silence easier to keep. No one talked to him at night. No one asked him questions. No one stared. Even the nasty blonde cunt had stopped his glaring. Cadven ground his teeth. That one was spoiling for a fight. The biggest dog always was. Wouldn’t be any avoiding it. He found himself looking at the sword, propped against the foot of his bed, gleaming in the half-light of the fire. Clear and sharp and flickering. He frowned at it, but it kept on gleaming anyway, so shoved it away under the cot and lay back, closing his eyes.

No, he never had been very good at sleeping, but it always came to him, eventually. Creeping, whispering, murmuring. A sleep full of dreams, a sleep full of silence.

So he slept, and when he dreamed, he dreamed of her.