Chapter Thirty-Four - Stonesplitter

It was almost winter, and Brand was angry.

In fairness, Brand was always angry, and his current mood had little to do with the weather. Presently, the feeling was more a kind of tingling rage. It curled in the joints of his knuckles, knotting his muscles close to bursting. It was an anger of ready violence. A kind only the worst men take to with unblinking ease. He knew it better than most.

‘You hear me, Northman?’

Brand raised his eyes slowly. The man in front of him was swarthier than the rest of the inn's patrons, a stocky mess of acned skin, lank hair and limbs thicker than oak roots. Probably a blacksmith. Or a particularly thrifty farmer. He was flanked by a handful of other rheumy-eyed thugs, every one of them glowering down at him in his seat with a hate hotter than forge-fire, half-addled with drink. Brand rubbed at the half-healed scar on his cheek. If he were any other man, this mismatched collection of amateur bullies might have made him hesitate. Made him fearful, even.

But Brand was not any other man, so he went back to his stew.

‘Think he's hard of hearing, this cunt.’ one of the men sneered.

‘Ugly fucker's got no luck, has he?’

‘Beard don’t cover enough. Bet he's hung like a ginger rabbit, too.’

Brand didn’t look up from his bowl. It was poor fare, in truth, but he hadn’t had a hot meal in days, and he hadn’t been dry in longer. The wet made the old wound in his back ache, even more than usual. His mare had been close to stumbling when the little cluster of furtive torchlight had swollen out of the sickly trees and muddy rocks beside the road. He’d still nearly thought better of stopping. Nearly.

‘Can you hear us, Northman?’ the first man sneered, dripping a liberal helping of bile over the last word.

'Maybe he's simple as well as ugly.’ another added to a small chorus of laughter from the assembled simpletons. Brand sighed. They were getting bolder. There’d be no ignoring them, now. At least the stew was hot.

‘How d'you get all those scars, Northman?’ the first man asked.

‘Must've headbutted a mirror. Couldn't stand to look neither, if I was him.’

Brand still didn't look up. There was a little curl of steam rising from his bowl, distorting the shapes of the men behind it into little twists of drunken rage. The rest of the inn was starting to take notice, and an eerie silence had fallen over the assembled sparseness of dirty grey cloth and dazed, hungry eyes. It stank of sweat and piss, and the air wafting from the kitchen had an unpleasant odour of sourness to it. Brand's thick brows knotted a little tighter, and a familiar heat swelled in his gut. How did he end up in a shitpile like this?

‘Doesn't need to talk, just listen.’ the stocky man was saying, thick arms folded across his well-stained shirt. ‘Won't have his kind here.’

‘Fucking right.’ one of the simpletons concurred.

‘Last Northman what came through here had an army of screamers with him. Burned ’n’ raped all the way to Uldoroth.’ the leader continued, smiling smugly at the sounds of encouragement from his little battalion of idiots. He spat at his feet. ‘Don't give two shits what fires they started for the fancy folk down south. But the Rift remembers.’

‘The Rift remembers.’ the idiots agreed.

Brand didn’t flinch.

‘Now you'd best clear off out, Northman.’ the pockmarked man didn't seem capable of getting out that word without afflicting it with scorn thicker than syrup. Brand felt his knuckles tighten. That familiar feeling, again. The stillness. The room was heavy with it.

‘Or there'll be trouble.’ the man finished.

It all happened very quickly, after that. Poor, simple fools didn’t know what hit them. Brand was on his feet before they could so much as flinch, bench shoved screeching back across the stone floor, one enormous hand clamped around the ringleader’s neck. Then he brought his arm down as if the thug gave no more resistance than a fresh sapling, bending him over the table between them so that one side of his spotted face submerged hissing into the boiling bowl of broth. The man shrieked in pain, struggling desperately, but Brand held him in place as though he were no stronger than a child. Which, compared to Brand, he was. The remaining thugs had taken a panicked step back as the giant Northman surged to his feet, a mountain of meat that filled the air of the inn, floorboards to rafters. He must have been close to seven feet tall, and broad as a wagon, with a mane of dark red hair and a beard tangled like a storm cloud. The hilt at his shoulder was dull and scratched, but the blade attached to it was nearly as tall as they were, thick as a man's wrist. The giant looked down at the man writhing in his grasp, calm as ice.

‘Like to talk, don't you?’ Brand asked him, deep voice rumbling like thunder.

The man tried to respond, but his words dissolved into a shrill whine as Brand thrust his head deeper into the wide bowl. He came up spluttering curses. Brand tutted, holding him in place.

‘I've known a lot of talkers. Lot of big men with big fucking mouths and small cocks. Like to talk about fighting. Talk about killing.’ He paused, dipping the man’s head a little deeper into the broth again, and got another squeal of pain for his efforts. The other men were watching him, transfixed. To their credit, none of them tried to intervene. Maybe there was hope for them, yet.

‘Thing is, real killers don't talk. In my experience, a man who likes to talk about what he does before he does it is either hoping not to do it, or just plain stupid enough to explain it before he does. So, you've got two choices, you daft fuck. Either you're a coward, or a deadman.’ Brand plunged the man's head into the steaming broth again on his last word as if to emphasise the point, and he screamed, drooling snot from his pockmarked nose. Brand leaned down, pressing his ear close to the man's blistering lips. ‘Which is it?’

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‘No' ah deadmam.’ the man wheezed faintly.

‘Good boy.’ Brand told him quietly. Then he straightened abruptly, jerking his arm out and hurling the man bodily back over the table. He flew helplessly into his waiting cronies, and the dumbstruck men collapsed in a pile of inebriated, cursing limbs. Around them, the rest of the inn-goers watched on, too hungry and dirty to care too much. Brand sat back down on his bench as the idiots struggled back to their feet, retreating hurriedly towards the door. He pushed away his ruined stew with a scowl. The heat was fading from his belly. Just like it always did. But he was still there, cold to the bone, surrounded by the reeking stench of piss and sour sweat. How the fuck did he end up in a shitpile like this?

‘Quite the performance.’

Brand's dark eyes flicked upwards. There was a newcomer standing in the spot where his would-be assailants had been, staring at him. A small man in a long, dark cloak, hood back, smiling from a face sharp as cracked marble. Where had he come from?

‘Apparently there is enough drink in the world to make a man fight a giant.’

‘Fuck off.’ Brand told him.

But the man didn't. Somehow he had already appeared on the bench opposite Brand, just a couple of paces to his right, resting his elbows on the table and scratching idly at the dark stubble on his sharp chin. He had a long, pointed nose, skin shaded in a once-tanned sort of way, and his hair was caught behind his head in a short knot. Can’t have been much more than thirty. Brand didn't like him. Had the kind of face that you forgot as soon as you weren't looking at it. Brand might have met him a dozen times; he still wouldn't remember him.

‘No drink?’

Brand ignored him.

‘It occurs to me, my large-proportioned friend, that your little parable might also apply to you.’ the man went on, undeterred. He had a sharp voice. A clever voice. There was some faint lilt to it, but Brand couldn't place it. Faint enough to be forgotten as quick as his sharp little mug, anyway. Brand really didn't like him.

‘Just did your fair bit of talking.’ the man continued, pale eyes roving the inn dismissively. ‘And you aren't dead. That would make you a coward, by your reckoning.’

‘It's none of your fucking concern what I am, you daft cunt.’

The man smiled, the kind of smile that made Brand want to relieve him of his teeth.

‘I think we both know you aren’t either.’ he told him, resting his arms on the table between them. ‘I think there’s a third answer. A killer who doesn’t want to kill, because he knows better. A killer who knows he can do it whenever he pleases, but also when not to.’ He turned over his arm so his open palm was face up on the table. There was a bulging purse in the centre of it, and Brand caught the flash of gold. ‘I think you’re smarter than you look. And I have need of a killer with a brain.’

'Not interested.' Brand told him bluntly.

If the man heard him, he gave no sign of it.

‘A man like you, far from home, can attract a lot of trouble.’ he continued, rolling the purse about his palm. ‘There are some, even here, who know the difference between a man with a past and a man who doesn't want to be found. Who still hear whispers from over the Sea of Storms.’ He paused, and his eyes twinkled. It took all of Brand’s restraint not to punch him in the throat. ‘You are quite distinctive, you know, and the name Stonesplitter is not so easily forgotten. Particularly in the Rift.’

Brand's eyes flashed dangerously. ‘The fuck do you want?’ How this slippery prick knew who he was, he had no idea. But he'd now become a problem that needed dealing with.

‘I told you, my northern friend.’ The man smiled that same smile at him again, and Brand felt his fingers curl into fists beneath the table. ‘I am in need of a killer. Someone with blood on their hands, and I hear you have plenty. Not just any killer either. I need a man who thinks before he acts. A man of a little more substance.’

‘You don't know me.’

‘I know you could have killed that man. I know you could probably kill every last man in here, without much trouble. I know you probably wanted to.’ The man paused, and Brand blinked as the purse vanished into the air around his hand. ‘That's the kind of restraint that keeps a man breathing.’

Brand grunted. His evening was well and truly fucked now. He considered how best to leave. He'd probably need to kill this one, so he didn't follow him. Just some fool with a nothing-face and quick hands, but this fool knew who he was. Couldn't risk him getting word north. His mare wouldn't go much further that night, either. It had been hard riding since the coast, and he was hardly an easy load. He scowled, thick fists curling a little tighter. He gave the man a quick glance, sizing him up. Wouldn't need a particularly big hole, but the ground was already hard with the cold. He scowled. Well and truly fucked.

‘Shit.’ he muttered, fists uncurling slowly. If the man had heard him, again he gave no sign of it, continuing on in his clever little voice, smiling pleasantly, apparently quite oblivious to the imminent risk to his health.

‘They'll be back, you know.’ he told Brand, nodding towards the doorway as it fell closed behind the last of the fleeing thugs. ‘A dozen more might not make much difference, I'll grant you. Not fighting men, those. More used to scythes than swords. But that kind of fight might make a few ripples further afield.’

Brand watched the last man go. The fool was right. That was attention he didn't want. The Sea of Storms was barely a week of hard riding at his back. Not a lot of headway with every bounty hunter in the North smelling gold whenever he farted. He scowled. Gods, his back was aching.

‘This venture of yours,’ Brand grumbled, brows knotting like old roots. ‘How far you going?’

The man smiled, and Brand considered killing him again for a moment. ‘Further than anyone will follow. As far as far goes.’

‘And you need a killer.’

‘The venture is somewhat... dangerous.’ the man replied slowly, smiling still. He snapped his fingers, and the coin purse reappeared in his hand. ‘Our wise leader is quite specific on the route. I think you might have crossed paths with him before, actually. Old fellow. Touch of the mysterious about him. Said to remind you that you owed him a favour.’

Thunder. Fire. A storm. Brand's eyes sank back to the table, muttering a few choice curses. The man opposite him chuckled.

‘I see you do know him.’

Brand thought for a moment, rubbing at the new scar on his cheek, again. Wasn't anything else for it, now. He realised that pretty quick.

‘Whatever's in that purse, I'll need double.’

‘Sold.’ the sharp little man agreed, licking his curved lips.

‘I've got a conditions.’

'I'm sure we can come to some mutually beneficial agreement.' the man told him, eyeing the door. ‘But perhaps we can agree them on route, so to speak.’

‘Suits me.’ Brand grumbled, shoving himself to his feet. Standing, his shadow covered most of the common room, and a few of the blank-eyed patrons shifted nervously. Brand didn't like this clever little man with his forgettable face. He didn't like his sharp little voice, his tricky hands, or his employer. He didn't like having his strings pulled, especially by old men with more years than grey hair on their cocks. This old man, in particular. But if he was going to be running, he might as well get paid for it. And, given the present situation, running was the only choice he had left.

‘You got a name?’ he asked reluctantly.

The man slid quietly to his feet. ‘Does it matter?’

‘No.’

The men did come back. A score of them, in all, little rusted irons at their belts, wooden clubs for the rest. They came with anger. The anger of men with nothing. The anger of men who needed to hurt. Fools’ anger.

But, lucky for them, there would be no more fighting, that night. They found the table empty, and the giant with the crimson hair and scarred face gone. Vanished into the night with some prick he didn't know, pockets full of some other cunt's coin, off to gods knew where, all at the beck and call of some cryptic old fuck who talked to storms.

It looked like Brand would be angry a while, yet.