Hardbread gave a rueful smile, prodded the fire with his twig and sent up a dusting of sparks. ‘Yours always was a tight crew. I daresay they’re scattered around the Heroes now, bows to hand.’
‘Something like that.’ Hardbread’s lads all twitched to the side, mouths gaping. Shocked at the voice coming from nowhere, shocked on top that it was a woman’s. Wonderful stood with her arms crossed, sword sheathed and bow over her shoulder, leaning up against one of the Heroes as careless as she might lean on a tavern wall. ‘Hey, hey, Hardbread.’
The old warrior winced. ‘Couldn’t you even nock an arrow, make it look like you take us serious?’
She jerked her head into the darkness. ‘There’s some boys back there, ready to put a shaft through your face if one o’ you looks at us wrong. That make you feel better?’
Hardbread winced even more. ‘Yes and no,’ he said, his lads staring into the gaps between the stones, the night suddenly heavy with threat. ‘Still acting Second to this article, are you?’
Wonderful scratched at the long scar through her shaved-stubble hair. ‘No better offers. We’ve got to be like an old married couple who haven’t fucked for years, just argue.’
‘Me and my wife were like that, ’til she died.’ Hardbread’s finger tapped at his drawn sword. ‘Miss her now, though. Thought you’d have company from the first moment I saw you, Craw. But since you’re still jawing and I’m still breathing, I reckon you’re set on giving us a chance to talk this out.’
‘Then you’ve reckoned the shit out o’ me,’ said Craw. ‘That’s exactly the plan.’
‘My sentries alive?’
Wonderful turned her head and gave one of her whistles, and Scorry Tiptoe slid out from behind one of the stones. Had his arm around a man with a big pink birthmark on his cheek. Looked almost like two old mates, ’til you saw Scorry’s hand had a blade in it, edge tickling at Birthmark’s throat.
‘Sorry, Chief,’ said the prisoner to Hardbread. ‘Caught me off guard.’
‘It happens.’
A scrawny lad came stumbling into the firelight like he’d been shoved hard, tripped over his own feet and sprawled in the long grass with a squawk. Jolly Yon stalked from the darkness behind him, axe held loose in one fist, heavy blade gleaming down by his boot, heavy frown on his bearded face.
‘Thank the dead for that.’ Hardbread waved his twig at the lad, just clambering up. ‘My sister’s son. Promised I’d keep an eye out. If you’d killed him I’d never have heard the end of it.’
