‘Aye, bastards. Traitors.’ The man with the red hood spat over their log. ‘I heard the Bloody-Nine was with ’em.’
There was a nervy silence. That name did no favours for anyone’s courage.
‘The Bloody-Nine’s back to the mud!’ Curly wriggled his shoulders. ‘Drowned. Black Dow killed him.’
‘Maybe.’ The man with the red hood looked grim as a gravedigger. ‘But I heard he’s here.’
A bowstring went right by Curly’s ear and he spun around. ‘What the—’
‘Sorry!’ A young lad, bow trembling in his hand. ‘Didn’t mean to, just—’
‘The Bloody-Nine!’ It came echoing out of the trees on their left, a mad yell, slobbering, terrified. ‘The Bloody—’ It cut off in a shriek, long drawn out and guttering away into a sob. Then a burst of mad laughter in the orchard ahead, making the collar prickle at Curly’s sweaty neck. An animal sound. A devil sound. They all crouched there for a stretched-out moment – staring, silent, disbelieving.
‘Shit on this!’ someone shouted, and Curly turned just in time to see one of the lads running off through the trees.
‘I ain’t fighting the Bloody-Nine! I ain’t!’ A boy scrambling back, kicking up fallen leaves.
‘Get back here, you bastards!’ Curly snarled, waving his bow about, but it was too late. His head snapped around at another blubbering scream. Couldn’t see where it came from but it sounded like hell, right enough.
‘The Bloody-Nine!’ came roaring again out of the gloom on the other side. He thought he could see shadows in the trees, flashes of steel, maybe. There were others running, right and left. Giving up good spots behind their logs without a shaft shot or a blade drawn.
- The Heroes, Day Three, Onwards and Upwards