Joe Abercrombie - Before They Are Hanged

Lord Marshal Burr thrust aside his tent flap and strode out into the open air, acknowledging the salutes of the various guards and officers scattered about the space in front with sharp waves of his hand.

“Colonel,” he growled, frowning up at the heavens. “Still dry, then?”

The sun was a watery smudge on the horizon, the sky thick white with streaks of heavy grey, darker bruises hanging over the northern ridge. “For the moment, sir,” said West.

“No word from Poulder yet?”

“No, sir. But it might be hard-going, the woods are dense.” Not as dense as Poulder himself, West thought, but that hardly seemed the most professional thing to say.

“Did you eat yet?”

“Yes, sir, thank you.” West had not eaten since last night, and even then not much. The very idea of food made him feel sick.

“Well at least one of us did.” Burr placed a hand sourly on his stomach. “Damned indigestion, I can’t touch a thing.” He winced and gave a long burp. “Pardon me. And there they go.”

General Kroy must finally have declared himself satisfied with the precise positioning of every man in his division, because the soldiers in the valley had begun to move forward. A chilly breeze blew up and set the regimental standards, the flags of the battalions, the company ensigns snapping and fluttering. The watery sun twinkled on sharpened blades and burnished armour, shone on gold braid and polished wood, glittered on buckles and harness. All advanced smoothly together, as proud a display of military might as could ever have been seen. Beyond them, down the valley to the east, a great black tower loomed up behind the trees. The nearest tower of the fortress of Dunbrec.

“Quite the spectacle,” muttered Burr. “Fifteen thousand fighting men, perhaps, all told, and almost as many more up on the ridge.” He nodded his head at the reserve, two regiments of cavalry, dismounted and restless down below the command post. “Another two thousand there, waiting for orders.” He glanced back towards the sprawling camp: a city of canvas, of carts, of stacked-up boxes and barrels, spread out in the snowy valley, black figures crawling around inside. “And that’s without counting all the thousands back there—cooks and grooms, smiths and drivers, servants and surgeons.” He shook his head. “Some responsibility, all that, eh? You wouldn’t want to be the fool who had to take care of all that lot.”

West gave a weak smile. “No, sir.”

“It looks like…” murmured Jalenhorm, shading his eyes and squinting down the valley into the sun. “Are those…?”

“Eye-glass!” snapped Burr, and a nearby officer produced one with a flourish. The Marshal flicked it open. “Well, well. Who’s this now?”

A rhetorical question, without a doubt. There was no one else it could be. “Bethod’s Northmen,” said Jalenhorm, ever willing to state the obvious.

West watched them rush across the open ground through the wobbling round window of his own eye-glass. They flowed out from the trees at the far end of the valley, near to the river, spreading out like the dark stain creeping from a slit wrist. Dirty grey and brown masses congealed on the wings. Thralls, lightly armed. In the centre better ordered ranks took shape, dull metal gleaming, mail and blade. Bethod’s Carls.

“No sign of any horse.” That made West more nervous than ever. He had already had one near-fatal encounter with Bethod’s cavalry, and he did not care to renew the acquaintance.

“Feels good to actually see the enemy, at last,” said Burr, voicing the exact opposite of West’s own feelings. “They move smartly enough, that’s sure.” His mouth curved up into a rare grin. “But they’re moving right where we want them to. The trap’s baited and ready to spring, eh, Captain?” He passed the eye-glass to Jalenhorm, who peered through it and grinned himself.

“Right where we want them,” he echoed. West felt a good deal less confident. He could clearly remember the thin line of Northmen on the ridge, right where Ladisla had thought he wanted them.

Kroy’s men halted and the units shuffled into perfect position once again, just as calmly as if they stood on a vast parade ground: lines four ranks deep, reserve companies drawn up neatly behind, a thin row of flatbowmen in front. West just made out the shouted orders to fire, saw the first volley float up from Kroy’s line, shower down in amongst the enemy. He felt his nails digging painfully into his palm as he watched, fists clenched tight, willing the Northmen to flee. Instead they sent back a well organised volley of their own, and then began to surge forward.

Their battle cry floated up to the officers outside the tent, that unearthly shriek, carrying on the cold air. West chewed at his lip, remembering the last time he heard it, echoing through the mist. Hard to believe it had only been a few weeks ago. Again he was guiltily glad to be well behind the lines, though a shiver down his back reminded him that it had done little good on that occasion.

“Bloody hell,” said Jalenhorm.

No one else spoke. West stood, teeth gritted, heart thumping, trying desperately to hold his eye-glass steady as the Northmen charged full-blooded down the valley. Kroy’s flatbows gave them one more volley, then pulled back through the carefully prepared gaps in the carefully dressed ranks, forming up again behind the lines. Spears were lowered, shields were raised, and in virtual silence, it seemed, the Union line prepared to meet the howling Northmen.

“Contact,” growled Lord Marshal Burr. The Union ranks seemed to wave and shift somewhat, the watery sunlight seemed to flash more rapidly on the mass of men, a vague rattling drifted on the air. Not a word was said in the command post. Each man was squinting through his eye-glass, or peering into the sun, craning to see what was happening down in the valley, hardly daring even to breathe.

After what seemed a horribly long time, Burr lowered his eyeglass. “Good. They’re holding. It seems your Northmen were right, West, we have the advantage in numbers, even without Poulder. When he gets here, it should be a rout—”

“Up there,” muttered West, “on the southern ridge.” Something glinted in the treeline, and again. Metal. “Cavalry, sir, I’d bet my life on it. It seems Bethod had the same idea as us, but on the other wing.”

“Damn it!” hissed Burr. “Send word to General Kroy that the enemy has horse on the southern ridge! Tell him to refuse that flank and prepare to be attacked from the right!” One of the adjutants leaped smoothly into his saddle and galloped off in the direction of Kroy’s headquarters, cold mud flying from his horse’s hooves.

“More tricks, and this may not be the last of ’em.” Burr snapped the eye-glass closed and thumped it into his open palm. “This must not be allowed to fail, Colonel West. Nothing must get in the way. Not Poulder’s arrogance, not Kroy’s pride, not the enemy’s cunning, none of it. We must have victory here today. It must not be allowed to fail!”

“No, sir.” But West was far from sure what he could do about it.

The Union soldiers were trying to be quiet, which meant they made about as much racket as a great herd of sheep being shoved indoors for shearing. Moaning and grunting, slithering on the wet ground, armour rattling, weapons knocking on low branches. Dogman shook his head as he watched ’em.

“Lucky thing there’s no one out here, or we’d have been heard long ago,” hissed Dow. “These fools couldn’t creep up on a corpse.”

“No need for you to be making noise,” hissed Threetrees, up ahead, then beckoned them all forward.

It was a strange feeling, marching with such a big crew again. There were two score of Shivers’ Carls along with ’em, and quite an assortment. Tall men and short, young and old, all manner of different weapons and armour, but all pretty well seasoned, from what the Dogman could tell.