The Heroes


By Joe Abercrombie

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They say Black Dow’s killed more men than winter, and clawed his way to the throne of the North up a hill of skulls. The King of the Union, ever a jealous neighbor, is not about to stand smiling by while he claws his way any higher. The orders have been given and the armies are toiling through the northern mud. Thousands of men are converging on a forgotten ring of stones, on a worthless hill, in an unimportant valley, and they’ve brought a lot of sharpened metal with them.


For glory, for victory, for staying alive.


Also by Joe Abercrombie from Gollancz:


The Blade Itself

Before They Are Hanged

Last Argument of Kings

Best Served Cold

Order of Battle


High Command

Lord Marshal Kroy – commander-in-chief of his Majesty's armies in the North.

Colonel Felnigg – his chief of staff, a remarkably chinless man.

Colonel Bremer dan Gorst – royal observer of the Northern War and disgraced master swordsman, formerly the king's First Guard.

Rurgen and Younger – his faithful servants, one old, one … younger.

Bayaz, the First of the Magi – a bald wizard supposedly hundreds of years old and an influential representative of the Closed Council, the king's closest advisors.

Yoru Sulfur – his butler, bodyguard and chief bookkeeper.

Denka and Saurizin – two old Adepti of the University of Adua, academics conducting an experiment for Bayaz.

Jalenhorm's Division

General Jalenhorm – an old friend of the king, fantastically young for his position, described as brave yet prone to blunders.

Retter – his thirteen-year-old bugler.

Colonel Vallimir – ambitious commanding officer of the King's Own First Regiment.

First Sergeant Forest – chief non-commissioned officer with the staff of the First.

Corporal Tunny – long-serving profiteer, and standard-bearer of the First.

Troopers Yolk, Klige, Worth, and Lederlingen – clueless recruits attached to Tunny as messengers.

Colonel Wetterlant – punctilious commanding officer of the Sixth Regiment.

Major Culfer – his panicky second in command.

Sergeant Gaunt, Private Rose – soldiers with the Sixth.

Major Popol – commanding the first battalion of the Rostod Regiment.

Captain Lasmark – a poor captain with the Rostod Regiment.

Colonel Vinkler – courageous commanding officer of the Thirteenth Regiment.

Mitterick's Division

General Mitterick – a professional soldier with much chin and little loyalty, described as sharp but reckless.

Colonel Opker – his chief of staff.

Lieutenant Dimbik – an unconfident young officer on Mitterick's staff.

Meed's Division

Lord Governor Meed – an amateur soldier with a neck like a turtle, in peacetime the governor of Angland, described as hating Northmen like a pig hates butchers.

Colonel Harod dan Brock – an honest and hard-working member of Meed's staff, the son of a notorious traitor.

Finree dan Brock – Colonel Brock's venomously ambitious wife, the daughter of Lord Marshal Kroy.

Colonel Brint – senior on Meed's staff, an old friend of the king.

Aliz dan Brint – Colonel Brint's naive young wife.

Captain Hardrick – an officer on Meed's staff, affecting tight trousers.

The Dogman's Loyalists

The Dogman – Chief of those Northmen fighting with the Union. An old companion of the Bloody-Nine, once a close friend of Black Dow, now his bitter enemy.

Red-Hat – the Dogman's Second, who wears a red hood.

Hardbread – a Named Man of long experience, leading a dozen for the Dogman.

Redcrow – one of Hardbread's Carls.


In and Around Skarling's Chair

Black Dow – the Protector of the North, or stealer of it, depending on who you ask.

Splitfoot – his Second, meaning chief bodyguard and arse-licker.

Ishri – his advisor, a sorceress from the desert South, and sworn enemy of Bayaz.

Caul Shivers – a scarred Named Man with a metal eye, who some call Black Dow's dog.

Curnden Craw – a Named Man thought of as a straight edge, once Second to Rudd Threetrees, then close to Bethod, now leading a dozen for Black Dow.

Wonderful – his long-suffering Second.

Whirrun of Bligh – a famous hero from the utmost North, who wields the Father of Swords. Also called Cracknut, on account of his nut being cracked.

Jolly Yon Cumber, Brack-i-Dayn, Scorry Tiptoe, Agrick, Athroc and Drofd – other members of Craw's dozen.

Scale's Men

Scale – Bethod's eldest son, now the least powerful of Dow's five War Chiefs, strong as a bull, brave as a bull, and with a bull's brain too.

Pale-as-Snow – once one of Bethod's War Chiefs, now Scale's Second.

White-Eye Hansul – a Named Man with a blind eye, once Bethod's herald.

'Prince' Calder – Bethod's younger son, an infamous coward and schemer, temporarily exiled for suggesting peace.

Seff – his pregnant wife, the daughter of Caul Reachey.

Deep and Shallow – a pair of killers, watching over Calder in the hope of riches.

Caul Reachey's Men

Caul Reachey – one of Dow's five War Chiefs, an elderly warrior, famously honourable, father to Seff, father-in-law to Calder.

Brydian Flood – a Named Man formerly a member of Craw's dozen.

Beck – a young farmer craving glory on the battlefield, the son of Shama Heartless.

Reft, Colving, Stodder and Brait – other young lads pressed into service with Beck.

Glama Golden's Men

Glama Golden – one of Dow's five War Chiefs, intolerably vain, locked in a feud with Cairm Ironhead.

Sutt Brittle – a famously greedy Named Man. Lightsleep – a Carl in Golden's employ.

Cairm Ironhead's Men

Cairm Ironhead – one of Dow's five War Chiefs, notoriously stubborn, locked in a feud with Glama Golden.

Curly – a stout-hearted scout.

Irig – an ill-tempered axeman.

Temper – a foul-mouthed bowman.


Brodd Tenways – the most loyal of Dow's five War Chiefs, ugly as incest. Stranger-Come-Knocking – a giant savage obsessed with civilisation, Chief of all the lands east of the Crinna.

Back to the Mud (dead, thought dead, or long dead)

Bethod – the first King of the Northmen, father to Scale and Calder.

Skarling Hoodless – a legendary hero who once united the North against the Union.

The Bloody-Nine – once Bethod's champion, the most feared man in the North, and briefly King of the Northmen before being killed by Black Dow (supposedly).

Rudd Threetrees – a famously honourable Chief of Uffrith, who fought against Bethod and was beaten in a duel by the Bloody-Nine.

Forley the Weakest – a notoriously weak fighter, companion to Black Dow and the Dogman, ordered killed by Calder.

Shama Heartless – a famous champion killed by the Bloody-Nine. Beck's father.

'Unhappy the land that

is in need of heroes'

Bertolt Brecht

The Times

'Too old for this shit,' muttered Craw, wincing at the pain in his dodgy knee with every other step. High time he retired. Long past high time. Sat on the porch behind his house with a pipe, smiling at the water as the sun sank down, a day's honest work behind him. Not that he had a house. But when he got one, it'd be a good one.

He found his way through a gap in the tumble-down wall, heart banging like a joiner's mallet. From the long climb up the steep slope, and the wild grass clutching at his boots, and the bullying wind trying to bundle him over. But mostly, if he was honest, from the fear he'd end up getting killed at the top. He'd never laid claim to being a brave man and he'd only got more cowardly with age. Strange thing, that – the fewer years you have to lose the more you fear the losing of 'em. Maybe a man just gets a stock of courage when he's born, and wears it down with each scrape he gets into.

Craw had been through a lot of scrapes. And it looked like he was about to snag himself on another.

He snatched a breather as he finally got to level ground, bent over, rubbing the wind-stung tears from his eyes. Trying to muffle his coughing which only made it louder. The Heroes loomed from the dark ahead, great holes in the night sky where no stars shone, four times man-height or more. Forgotten giants, marooned on their hilltop in the scouring wind. Standing stubborn guard over nothing.

Craw found himself wondering how much each of those great slabs of rock weighed. Only the dead knew how they'd dragged the bastard things up here. Or who had. Or why. The dead weren't telling, though, and Craw had no plans on joining 'em just to find out.

He saw the faintest glow of firelight now, at the stones' rough edges. Heard the chatter of men's voices over the wind's low growl. That brought back the risk he was taking, and a fresh wave of fear washed up with it. But fear's a healthy thing, long as it makes you think. Rudd Threetrees told him that, long time ago. He'd thought it through, and this was the right thing to do. Or the least wrong thing, anyway. Sometimes that's the best you can hope for.

So he took a deep breath, trying to remember how he'd felt when he was young and had no dodgy joints and didn't care a shit for nothing, picked out a likely gap between two of those big old rocks and strolled through.

Maybe this had been a sacred place, once upon an ancient day, high magic in these stones, the worst of crimes to wander into the circle uninvited. But if any old Gods took offence they'd no way of showing it. The wind dropped away to a mournful sighing and that was all. Magic was in scarce supply and there wasn't much sacred either. Those were the times.

The light shifted on the inside faces of the Heroes, faint orange on pitted stone, splattered with moss, tangled with old bramble and nettle and seeding grass. One was broken off half way up, a couple more had toppled over the centuries, left gaps like missing teeth in a skull's grin.

Craw counted eight men, huddled around their wind-whipped campfire with patched cloaks and worn coats and tattered blankets wrapped tight. Firelight flickered on gaunt, scarred, stubbled and bearded faces. Glinted on the rims of their shields, the blades of their weapons. Lots of weapons. Fair bit younger, in the main, but they didn't look much different to Craw's own crew of a night. Probably they weren't much different. He even thought for a moment one man with his face side-on was Jutlan. Felt that jolt of recognition, the eager greeting ready on his lips. Then he remembered Jutlan was twelve years in the ground, and he'd said the words over his grave.

Maybe there are only so many faces in the world. You get old enough, you start seeing 'em used again.

Craw lifted his open hands high, palms forward, doing his best to stop 'em shaking any. 'Nice evening!'

The faces snapped around. Hands jerked to weapons. One man snatched up a bow and Craw felt his guts drop, but before he got close to drawing the string the man beside him stuck out an arm and pushed it down.

'Whoa there, Redcrow.' The one who spoke was a big old lad, with a heavy tangle of grey beard and a drawn sword sitting bright and ready across his knees. Craw found a rare grin, 'cause he knew the face, and his chances were looking better.

Hardbread he was called, a Named Man from way back. Craw had been on the same side as him in a few battles down the years, and the other side from him in a few more. But he'd a solid reputation. A long-seasoned hand, likely to think things over, not kill then ask the questions, which was getting to be the more popular way of doing business. Looked like he was Chief of this lot too, 'cause the lad called Redcrow sulkily let his bow drop, much to Craw's relief. He didn't want anyone getting killed tonight, and wasn't ashamed to say that counted double for his self.

There were still a fair few hours of darkness to get through, though, and a lot of sharpened steel about.

'By the dead.' Hardbread sat still as the Heroes themselves, but his mind was no doubt doing a sprint. ''Less I'm much mistaken, Curnden Craw just wandered out o' the night.'

'You ain't.' Craw took a few slow paces forwards, hands still high, doing his best to look light-hearted with eight sets of unfriendly eyes weighing him down.

'You're looking a little greyer, Craw.'

'So are you, Hardbread.'

'Well, you know. There's a war on.' The old warrior patted his stomach. 'Plays havoc with my nerves.'

'All honesty, mine too.'

'Who'd be a soldier?'

'Hell of a job. But they say old horses can't jump new fences.'

'I try not to jump at all these days,' said Hardbread. 'Heard you was fighting for Black Dow. You and your dozen.'

'Trying to keep the fighting to a minimum, but as far as who I'm doing it for, you're right. Dow buys my porridge.'

'I love porridge.' Hardbread's eyes rolled down to the fire and he poked thoughtfully at it with a twig. 'The Union pays for mine now.' His lads were twitchy – tongues licking at lips, fingers tickling at weapons, eyes shining in the firelight. Like the audience at a duel, watching the opening moves, trying to suss who had the upper hand. Hardbread's eyes came up again. 'That seems to put us on opposite sides.'

'We going to let a little thing like sides spoil a polite conversation?' asked Craw.

As though the very word 'polite' was an insult, Redcrow had another rush of blood. 'Let's just kill this fucker!'

Hardbread turned slowly to him, face squeezed up with scorn. 'If the impossible happens and I feel the need for your contribution, I'll tell you what it is. 'Til then keep it shut, halfhead. Man o' Curnden Craw's experience don't just wander up here to get killed by the likes o' you.' His eyes flicked around the stones, then back to Craw. 'Why'd you come, all by your lone self? Don't want to fight for that bastard Black Dow no more, and you've come over to join the Dogman?'

'Can't say I have. Fighting for the Union ain't really my style, no disrespect to those that do. We all got our reasons.'

'I try not to damn a man on his choice o' friends alone.'

'There's always good men on both sides of a good question,' said Craw. 'Thing is, Black Dow asked me to stroll on down to the Heroes, stand a watch for a while, see if the Union are coming up this way. But maybe you can spare me the bother. Are the Union coming up this way?'


'You're here, though.'

'I wouldn't pay much mind to that.' Hardbread glanced at the lads around the fire without great joy. 'As you can see, they more or less sent me on my own. The Dogman asked me to stroll up to the Heroes, stand a watch, see if Black Dow or any of his lot showed up.' He raised his brows. 'You think they will?'

Craw grinned. 'Dunno.'

'You're here, though.'

'Wouldn't pay much mind to that. It's just me and my dozen. 'Cept for Brydian Flood, he broke his leg a few months ago, had to leave him behind to mend.'

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.'

'He was asleep,' growled Yon. 'Weren't looking out too careful, were you?'

Hardbread shrugged. 'Weren't expecting anyone. If there's two things we've got too much of in the North it's hills and rocks. Didn't reckon a hill with rocks on it would be a big draw.'

'It ain't to me,' said Craw, 'but Black Dow said come down here—'

'And when Black Dow says a thing …' Brack-i-Dayn half-sang the words, that way the hillmen tend to. He stepped into the wide circle of grass, tattooed side of his great big face turned towards the firelight, shadows gathered in the hollows of the other.

Redcrow made to jump up but Hardbread weighed him down with a pat on the shoulder. 'My, my. You lot just keep popping up.' His eyes slid from Jolly Yon's axe, to Wonderful's grin, to Brack's belly, to Scorry's knife still at his man's throat. Judging the odds, no doubt, just the way Craw would've done. 'You got Whirrun of Bligh with you?'

Craw slowly nodded. 'I don't know why, but he insists on following me around.'

Right on cue, Whirrun's strange valley accent floated from the dark. 'Shoglig said … I would be shown my destiny … by a man choking on a bone.' It echoed off the stones, seeming to come from everywhere at once. He'd quite the sense of theatre, Whirrun. Every real hero needs one. 'And Shoglig is old as these stones. Hell won't take her, some say. Blade won't cut her. Saw the world born, some say, and will see it die. That's a woman a man has to listen to, ain't it? Or so some say.'

Whirrun strolled through the gap one of the missing Heroes had left and into the firelight, tall and lean, face in shadow from his hood, patient as winter. He had the Father of Swords across his shoulders like a milkmaid's yoke, dull grey metal of the hilt all agleam, arms slung over the sheathed blade and his long hands dangling. 'Shoglig told me the time, and the place, and the manner of my death. She whispered it, and made me swear to keep it secret, for magic shared is no magic at all. So I cannot tell you where it will be, or when, but it is not here, and it is not now.' He stopped a few paces from the fire. 'You boys, on the other hand …' Whirrun's hooded head tipped to one side, only the end of his sharp nose, and the line of his sharp jaw, and his thin mouth showing. 'Shoglig didn't say when you'd be going.' He didn't move. He didn't have to. Wonderful looked at Craw, and rolled her eyes towards the starry sky.

But Hardbread's lads hadn't heard it all a hundred times before. 'That Whirrun?' one muttered to his neighbour. 'Cracknut Whirrun? That's him?'

His neighbour said nothing, just the lump on the front of his throat moving as he swallowed.

'Well, my old arse if I'm fighting my way out o' this,' said Hardbread, brightly. 'Any chance you'd let us clear out?'

'I've a mind to insist on it,' said Craw.

'We can take our gear?'

'I'm not looking to embarrass you. I just want your hill.'

'Or Black Dow does, at any rate.'

'Same difference.'

'Then you're welcome to it.' Hardbread slowly got to his feet, wincing as he straightened his legs, no doubt cursed with some sticky joints of his own. 'Windy as anything up here. Rather be down in Osrung, feet near a fire.' Craw had to admit he'd a point there. Made him wonder who'd got the better end of the deal. Hardbread sheathed his sword, thoughtful, while his lads gathered their gear. 'This is right decent o' you, Craw. You're a straight edge, just like they say. Nice that men on different sides can still talk things through, in the midst of all this. Decent behaviour … it's out o' fashion.'

'Those are the times.' Craw jerked his head at Scorry and he slipped his knife away from Birthmark's throat, gave this little bow and held his open hand out towards the fire. Birthmark backed off, rubbing at the new-shaved patch on his stubbly neck, and started rolling up a blanket. Craw hooked his thumbs in his sword-belt and kept his eyes on Hardbread's crew as they made ready to go, just in case anyone had a mind to play hero.

Redcrow looked most likely. He'd slung his bow over his shoulder and now he was standing there with a black look, an axe in one white-knuckled fist and a shield on his other arm, a red bird painted on it. If he'd been for killing Craw before, didn't seem the last few minutes had changed his mind. 'A few old shits and some fucking woman,' he snarled. 'We're backing down to the likes o' these without a fight?'

'No, no.' Hardbread slung his own scarred shield onto his back. 'I'm backing down, and these fellows here. You're going to stay, and fight Whirrun of Bligh on your own.'

'I'm what?' Redcrow frowned at Whirrun, twitchy, and Whirrun looked back, what showed of his face still stony as the Heroes themselves.

'That's right,' said Hardbread, 'since you're itching for a brawl. Then I'm going to cart your hacked-up corpse back to your mummy and tell her not to worry 'cause this is the way you wanted it. You loved this fucking hill so much you just had to die here.'

Redcrow's hand worked nervously around his axe handle. 'Eh?'

'Or maybe you'd rather come down with the rest of us, blessing the name o' Curnden Craw for giving us a fair warning and letting us go without any arrows in our arses.'

'Right,' said Redcrow, and turned away, sullen.

Hardbread puffed his cheeks at Craw. 'Young ones these days, eh? Were we ever so stupid?'

Craw shrugged. 'More'n likely.'

'Can't say I felt the need for blood like they seem to, though.'

Craw shrugged again. 'Those are the times.'

'True, true, and three times true. We'll leave you the fire, eh? Come on, boys.' They made for the south side of the hill, still stowing the last of their gear, and one by one faded into the night between the stones.

Hardbread's nephew turned in the gap and gave Craw the fuck yourself finger. 'We'll be back here, you sneaking bastards!' His uncle cuffed him across the top of his scratty head. 'Ow! What?'

'Some respect.'

'Ain't we fighting a war?'

Hardbread cuffed him again and made him squeal. 'No reason to be rude, you little shit.'

Craw stood there as the lad's complaints faded into the wind beyond the stones, swallowed sour spit, and eased his thumbs out from his belt. His hands were trembling, had to rub 'em together to hide it, pretending he was cold. But it was done, and everyone involved still drawing breath, so he guessed it had worked out as well as anyone could've hoped.

Jolly Yon didn't agree. He stepped up beside Craw frowning like thunder and spat into the fire. 'Time might come we regret not killing those folks there.'

'Not killing don't tend to weigh as heavy on my conscience as the alternative.'

Brack tut-tutted from Craw's other side. 'A warrior shouldn't carry too much conscience.'

'A warrior shouldn't carry too much belly either.' Whirrun had shrugged the Father of Swords off his shoulders and stood it on end, the pommel coming up to his neck, watching how the light moved on the crosspiece as he turned it round and round. 'We all got our weights to heft.'

'I've got just the right amount, you stringy bastard.' And the hillman gave his great gut a proud pat like a father might give his son's head.

'Chief.' Agrick strode into the firelight, bow loose in his hand and an arrow dangling between two fingers.

'They away?' asked Craw.

'Watched 'em down past the Children. They're crossing the river now, heading towards Osrung. Athroc's keeping a watch on 'em, though. We'll know if they double back.'


  • "Lord of the rings as directed by Kurosawa" --- Wall Street Journal.

    "Magnificent, richly entertaining." --- Time

    "Abercrombie never glosses over a moment of the madness, passion, and horror of war, nor the tribulations that turn ordinary people into the titular heroes." --- Publishers Weekly (Starred Review)

    "The Heroes is an indictment of war and the duplicity that corrupts men striving for total power: bloody and violent, but never gratuitously so, it's imbued with cutting humour, acute characterisation and world-weary wisdom about the weaknesses of the human race. Brilliant." --- Eric Brown, The Guardian (UK)

    "Delivered in Abercrombie's trademark witty style ... This is an action-packed novel full of brutality, black humour and razor-sharp characterisation." --- Dave Bradley, SFX (5 star review)

    "It's an excellent tale and arguably Abercrombie's best book yet ... Its pace really showcases his talent for differently voiced and realistically motivated characters ... any genre fan can enjoy what's one of the best fantasy books of the past year." --- SciFi Now (5 star review)

On Sale
Oct 21, 2011
Page Count
592 pages

Joe Abercrombie

About the Author

Joe Abercrombie was born in Lancaster in 1974, spent much of his youth in imaginary worlds, and left school with a good idea of how to make stuff up. After graduating from Manchester University he worked as a TV editor, but he never stopped making stuff up, and his first book, The Blade Itself, was published in 2006. He has since written eight more novels and a collection of stories in his First Law and Shattered Sea series. He lives in Bath with his wife Lou and their three children Grace, Eve and Teddy, and makes stuff up full-time.

Learn more about this author