The Collected Joe Abercrombie (375 page)

Two small wagons that had somehow been dragged up the hill had been turned over onto their sides and their eclectic contents – from tents to pans to smithing instruments to a shining new washboard – scattered across the grass while soldiers rooted through the remainder like plunderers after a rout.

‘What the hell are you about, Sergeant?’ demanded Jalenhorm, spurring his horse over.

The man looked up guiltily to see the attention of a general and two dozen staff officers all suddenly focused upon him, and swallowed. ‘Well, sir, we’re a little short of flatbow bolts, General, sir.’

‘And?’

‘It seems ammunition was considered very important by those that packed the supplies.’

‘Naturally.’

‘So it was packed first.’

‘First.’

‘Yes, sir. Meaning, on the bottom, sir.’

‘The bottom?’

‘Sir!’ A man with a pristine uniform hastened over, chin high, giving Jalenhorm a salute so sharp that the snapping of his well-polished heels was almost painful to the ear.

The general swung from his saddle and shook him by the hand. ‘Colonel Wetterlant, good to see you! How do things stand?’

‘Well enough, sir, most of the Sixth is up here now, though lacking a good deal of our equipment.’ Wetterlant led them across the grass, soldiers doing the best they could to make room amid the chaos. ‘One battalion of the Rostod Regiment too, though what happened to their commanding officer is anyone’s guess.’

‘Laid up with the gout, I believe—’ someone muttered.

‘Is that a grave?’ asked Jalenhorm, pointing out a patch of fresh-turned earth in the shadow of one of the stones, trampled with boot-prints.

The colonel frowned at it. ‘Well, I suppose—’

‘Any sign of the Northmen?’

‘A few of my men have seen movement in the woods to the north but nothing we could say for certain was the enemy. More likely than not it’s sheep.’ Wetterlant led them between two of the towering stones. ‘Other than that, not a sniff of the buggers. Apart from what they left behind, that is.’

‘Ugh,’ said one of the staff officers, looking sharply away. Several bloodstained bodies were laid out in a row. One of them had been sliced in half and had lost his lower arm besides, flies busy on his exposed innards.

‘Was there combat?’ asked Jalenhorm, frowning at the corpses.

‘No, those are yesterday’s. And they were ours. Some of the Dogman’s scouts, apparently.’ The colonel pointed out a small group of Northmen, a tall one with a red bird on his shield and a heavy set old man conspicuous among them, busy digging graves.

‘What about the horse?’ It lay on its side, an arrow poking from its bloated belly.

‘I really couldn’t say.’

Gorst took in the defences, which were already considerable. Spearmen were manning the drystone wall on this side of the hill, packed shoulder to shoulder at a gap where a patchy track passed down the hillside. Behind them, higher up the slope, a wide double curve of archers fussed with bolts and flatbows or simply lazed about, chewing disconsolately at dried rations, a couple apparently arguing over winnings at dice.

‘Good,’ said Jalenhorm, ‘good,’ without specifying exactly what met his approval. He frowned out across the patchwork of field and pasture, over the few farms and towards the woods that blanketed the north side of the valley. Thick forest, of the kind that covered so much of the country, the monotony of trees only relieved by the vague stripes of two roads leading north between the fells. One of them, presumably, to Carleon.
And victory.

‘There could be ten Northmen out there or ten thousand,’ muttered Jalenhorm. ‘We must be careful. Mustn’t underestimate Black Dow. I was at the Cumnur, you know, Gorst, where Prince Ladisla was killed. Well, the day before the battle, in fact, but I was there. A dark day for Union arms. Can’t be having another of those, eh?’

I strongly suggest that you resign your commission, then, and allow someone with better credentials to take command.
‘No, sir.’

Jalenhorm had already turned away to speak to Wetterlant. Gorst could hardly blame him.
When did I last say anything worth hearing? Bland agreements and non-committal splutterings. The bleating of a goat would serve the same purpose.
He turned his back on the knot of staff officers and wandered over to where the Northmen were digging graves. The grey-haired one watched him come, leaning on his spade.

‘My name is Gorst.’

The older man raised his brows.
Surprise that a Union man should speak Northern, or surprise that a big man should speak like a little girl?
‘Hard-bread’s mine. I fight for the Dogman.’ His words slightly mangled in a badly battered mouth.

Gorst nodded to the corpses. ‘These are your men?’

‘Aye.’

‘You fought up here?’

‘Against a dozen led by a man called Curnden Craw.’ He rubbed at his bruised jaw. ‘We had the numbers but we lost.’

Gorst frowned around the circle of stones. ‘They had the ground.’

‘That and Whirrun of Bligh.’

‘Who?’

‘Some fucking hero,’ scoffed the one with a red bird on his shield.

‘From way up north in the valleys,’ said Hardbread, ‘where it snows every bloody day.’

‘Mad bastard,’ grunted one of Hardbread’s men, nursing a bandaged arm. ‘They say he drinks his own piss.’

‘I heard he eats children.’

‘He has this sword they say fell out of the sky.’ Hardbread wiped his forehead on the back of one thick forearm. ‘They worship it, up there in the snows.’

‘They worship a sword?’ asked Gorst.

‘They think God dropped it or something. Who knows what they think up there? Either way, Cracknut Whirrun is one dangerous bastard.’ Hard-bread licked at a gap in his teeth, and from his grimace it was a new one. ‘I can tell you that from my own experience.’

Gorst frowned towards the forest, trees shining dark green in the sun. ‘Do you think Black Dow’s men are near?’

‘I reckon they are.’

‘Why?’

‘Because Craw fought against the odds, and he ain’t a man to fight over nothing. Black Dow wanted this hill.’ Hardbread shrugged as he bent back to his task. ‘We’re burying these poor bastards then we’re going down. I’ll be leaving a tooth back there on the slope and a nephew in the mud and I don’t plan on leaving aught else in this bloody place.’

‘Thank you.’ Gorst turned back towards Jalenhorm and his staff, now engaged in a heated debate about whether the latest company to arrive should be placed behind or in front of the ruined wall. ‘General!’ he called. ‘The scouts think Black Dow might be nearby!’

‘I hope he is!’ shot back Jalenhorm, though it was obvious he was scarcely listening. ‘The crossings are in our hands! Take control of all three crossings, that’s our first objective!’

‘I thought there were four crossings.’ It was said quietly, one man murmuring to another, but the hubbub dropped away at that moment. Everyone turned to see a pale young lieutenant, somewhat surprised to have become the centre of attention.

‘Four?’ Jalenhorm rounded on the man. ‘There is the Old Bridge, to the west.’ He flung out one arm, almost knocking down a portly major. ‘The bridge in Osrung, to the east. And the shallows where we made the passage. Three crossings.’ The general waved three big fingers in the lieutenant’s face. ‘All in our hands!’

The young man flushed. ‘One of the scouts told me there is a path through the bogs, sir, further west of the Old Bridge.’

‘A path through the bogs?’ Jalenhorm squinted off to the west. ‘A secret way? I mean to say, Northmen could use that path and get right around us! Damn good work, boy!’

‘Well, thank you, sir—’

The general spun one way, then back the other, heel twisting up the sod, casting around as though the right strategy was always just behind him. ‘Who hasn’t crossed the river yet?’

His officers milled about in their efforts to stay in his line of sight.

‘Are the Eighth up?’

‘I thought the rest of the Thirteenth—’

‘Colonel Vallimir’s first cavalry are still deploying there!’

‘I believe they have one battalion in order, just reunited with their horses—’

‘Excellent! Send to Colonel Vallimir and ask him to take that battalion through the bogs.’

A couple of officers grumbled their approval. Others glanced somewhat nervously at each other. ‘A whole battalion?’ one muttered. ‘Is this path suitable for—’

Jalenhorm swatted them away. ‘Colonel Gorst! Would you ride back across the river and convey my wishes to Colonel Vallimir, make sure the enemy can’t give us an unpleasant surprise.’

Gorst paused for a moment. ‘General, I would prefer to remain where I can—’

‘I understand entirely. You wish to be close to the action. But the king asked specifically in his last letter that I do everything possible to keep you out of danger. Don’t worry, the front line will hold perfectly well without you. We friends of the king must stick together, mustn’t we?’

All the king’s fools, capering along in military motley to the same mad bugle music! Make the one with the silly voice turn another cartwheel, my sides are splitting!
‘Of course, sir.’ And Gorst trudged back towards his horse.

Scale

C
alder nudged his horse down a path so vague he wasn’t even sure it was one, smirk clamped tight to his face. If Deep and Shallow were keeping an eye on him – and since he was their best source of money it was a certainty – he couldn’t tell. Admittedly, there wasn’t much point to men like Deep and Shallow if a man like Calder could tell where they were, but by the dead he would’ve liked some company. Like a starving man tossed a crust, seeing Curnden Craw had only whetted Calder’s appetite for friendly faces.

He’d ridden through Ironhead’s men, soaking up their scorn, and Tenways’, soaking up their hostility, and now he was getting into the woods at the west end of the valley, where Scale’s men were gathered. His brother’s men. His men, he supposed, though they didn’t feel much like his. Tough-looking bastards, ragged from hard marching, bandaged from hard fighting. Worn down from being far from Black Dow’s favour where they did the toughest jobs for the leanest rewards. They didn’t look in a mood to celebrate anything, and for damn sure not the arrival of their Chief’s coward brother.

It didn’t help that he’d struggled into his chain mail shirt, hoping to at least look like a warrior prince for the occasion. It had been a gift from his father, years ago, made from Styrian steel, lighter than most Northern mixtures but still heavy as an anvil and hot as a sheepskin. Calder had no notion how men could wear these damn things for days at a time. Run in them. Sleep in them. Fight in them. Mad business, fighting in this. Mad business, fighting. He’d never understood what men saw in it.

And few men saw more in it than his own brother, Scale.

He was squatting in a clearing with a map spread out in front of him. Pale-as-Snow was at his left elbow and White-Eye Hansul at his right, old comrades of Calder’s father from the time when he ruled the best part of the North. Men who’d fallen a long way when the Bloody-Nine threw Calder’s father from his battlements. Almost as far as Calder had fallen himself.

Him and Scale were born to different mothers, and the joke always was that Scale’s must’ve been a bull. He looked like a bull, and a particularly mean and muscular one at that. He was Calder’s opposite in almost every way – blond where Calder was dark, blunt-featured where Calder was sharp, quick to anger and slow to think. Nothing like their father. Calder was the one who’d taken after Bethod, and everyone knew it. One reason why they hated him. That and he’d spent so much of his life acting like a prick.

Scale looked up when he heard the hooves of Calder’s horse, gave a great smile as he strode over, still carrying that trace of a limp the Bloody-Nine had given him. He wore his chain mail lightly as a maiden wears a shift even so, a heavy black-forged double coat of it, plates of black steel strapped on top, all scratched and dented. ‘Always be armed,’ their father had told them, and Scale had taken it literally. He was criss-crossed with belting and bristling with weapons, two swords and a great mace at his belt, three knives in plain sight and probably others out of it. He had a bandage around his head stained brown on one side, and a new nick through his eyebrow to add to a rapidly growing collection of scars. It looked as if Calder’s frequent attempts to persuade Scale to stay out of battle had been as wasted as Scale’s frequent attempts to persuade Calder to charge into it.

Calder swung from his saddle, finding it a straining effort in his mail and trying to make it look like he was only stiff from a hard ride. ‘Scale, you thick bastard, how’ve you—’

Scale caught him in a crushing hug, lifted his feet clear of the ground and gave him a slobbery kiss on the forehead. Calder hugged him back the best he could with all the breath squeezed out of his body and a sword hilt poking him in the gut, so suddenly, pathetically happy to have someone on his side he wanted to cry.

‘Get off!’ he wheezed, hammering at Scale’s back with the heel of his hand like a wrestler submitting. ‘Off!’