Joe Abercrombie - Last Argument of Kings

For once, there was no sign of reluctance. “Of course, my Lord Marshal.”

“Your division will approach Adua from the north-east, break through the Gurkish lines and enter the city in force, pushing westward towards the Agriont. If the enemy have reached the centre of the city, you will engage them. If not, you will bolster the defences at Arnault’s Wall and prepare to flush them from the Arches district.”

Kroy nodded grimly, a single vein bulging on his forehead, his officers like statues of military precision behind him. “By this time tomorrow, not one Kantic soldier will be left alive in Adua.”

“Dogman, I would like you and your Northmen to support General Kroy’s division in their attack. If your…” West wrestled with the word, “…king has no objections.”

The Dogman licked his sharp teeth. “Reckon he’ll go whichever way the wind blows. That’s always been his style.”

“The wind blows towards Adua tonight.”

“Aye.” The Northman nodded. “Towards Adua, then.”

“General Poulder, your division will approach the city from the south-east, participate in the battle for the walls, then enter the city in force and move on the docks. If the enemy has made it that far, you will clear them away, then turn northwards and follow the Middleway to the Agriont.”

Poulder hammered the table with his fist, his officers growling like prize-fighters. “Yes, damn it! We’ll paint the streets with Gurkish blood!”

West gave Poulder, and then Kroy, each a hard frown. “I hardly need to emphasise the importance of victory tomorrow.”

The two Generals rose without a word and moved for the tent flap together. They faced each other before it. For a moment West wondered if, even now, they would fall back into their familiar bickering.

Then Kroy held out his hand. “The best of luck, General Poulder.”

Poulder seized the hand in both of his. “And to you, General Kroy. The very best of luck to all of us.” The two of them stepped smartly out into the dusk, their officers following, Jalenhorm and Brint close behind.

Hayden coughed. “Lord Marshal… four other Knights Herald were sent with me. We split up, in the hopes that one of us at least would make it through the Gurkish lines. Have any of the others arrived?”

“No… not yet. Perhaps later…” West did not think it terribly likely, and neither did Hayden, he could see it in his eyes.

“Of course. Perhaps later.”

“Sergeant Pike will find you some wine and a horse. I imagine you would very much like to see us attack the Gurkish in the morning.”

“I would.”

“Very good.” The two men left the way they had come, and West frowned after them. A shame about the man’s comrades, but there would be many more deaths to mourn before tomorrow was done. If there was anyone left to do the mourning. He pushed aside the tent flap and stepped out into the chill air.

The ships of the fleet were anchored in the narrow harbour down below, rocking slowly on the waves, tall masts waving back and forth against the darkening clouds—hard blue, and cold grey, and angry orange. West fancied he could see a few boats crawling closer to the black beach, still ferrying the last of the army to the shore.

The sun was dropping fast towards the horizon, a final muddy flare above the hills in the west. Somewhere under there, just out of sight, Adua was burning. West worked his shoulders round in circles, trying to force the knotted muscles to relax. He had heard no word since before they left Angland. As far as he was aware Ardee was still inside its walls. But there was nothing he could do. Nothing beyond ordering an immediate attack and hoping, against the general run of luck, for the best. He rubbed unhappily at his stomach. He had been suffering with indigestion ever since the sea journey. The pressures of command, no doubt. A few more weeks of it would probably see him vomiting blood over his maps, just like his predecessor. He took a long, ragged breath and blew it out.

“I know how you feel.” It was the Dogman, sitting on a rickety bench beside the tent flap, elbows on his knees, staring down towards the sea.

West sagged down beside him. Briefings with Poulder and Kroy were always a terrible drain. Play the man of stone for too long and you are left a man of straw. “I’m sorry,” he found himself saying.

Dogman looked up at him. “You are? For what?”

“For all of it. For Threetrees, for Tul… for Cathil.” West had to swallow an unexpected lump in his throat. “For all of it. I’m sorry.”

“Ah, we’re all sorry. I don’t blame you. I don’t blame no one, not even Bethod. What good does blame do? We all do what we have to. I gave up looking for reasons a long time ago.”

West thought about that for a moment. Then he nodded. “Alright.” They sat and watched the torches being lit around the bay below, like glittering dust spreading out across the dark country.

Night time, and a grim one. Grim for the cold, and the drip, drip of thin rain, and all the hard miles that needed slogging over before dawn. Grim most of all for what waited at the end of it, when the sun came up. Marching to a battle only got harder each time. When Logen had been a young man, before he lost a finger and gained a black reputation, there’d at least been some trace of excitement to it, some shadow of a thrill. Now there was only the sick fear. Fear of the fight, and worse still, fear of the results.

Being king was no kind of help. It was no help to anything, far as he could see. It was just like being chief, but worse. Made him think there was something he should be doing that he wasn’t. Made the gap between him and everyone else that bit wider. That bit more unbridgeable.

Boots squelched and sucked, weapons and harness clattered and jingled, men grunted and cursed in the darkness. A few of them had spitting torches now, to light the muddy way, streaks of rain flitting down in the glow around them. The rain fell on Logen too, a feathery kiss at his scalp, and his face, the odd pit and patter on the shoulders of his old coat.

The Union army was spread out down five roads, all heading east, all pointing towards Adua and what sounded like a hard reckoning with the Gurkish. Logen and his crew were on the northernmost one. Off to the south he could see a faint line of flickering lights, floating disembodied in the black country, stretching away out of sight. Another column. Another few thousand men, cursing through the mud towards a bloody dawn.

Logen frowned. He saw the side of Shivers’ lean face, up ahead, by the flickering light of a torch, a scowl full of hard shadows, one eye glinting. They watched each other for a moment, then Shivers turned his back, hunched up his shoulders and carried on walking.

“He still don’t like me much, that one, and never will.”

“Careless slaughter ain’t necessarily the high road to popularity,” said Dogman. “Especially in a king.”

“But that one there might have the bones to do something about it.” Shivers had a grudge. One that wasn’t going away with time, or kindness, or even lives saved. There aren’t many wounds that ever heal all the way, and there are some that hurt more with every day that passes.

The Dogman seemed to guess at Logen’s thoughts. “Don’t worry about Shivers. He’s alright. We’ve got plenty to worry about with these Gurkish, or whatever.”

“Uh,” said Grim.

Logen wasn’t so sure about that. The worst enemies are the ones that live next door, his father always used to tell him. Back in the old days he’d just have murdered the bastard where he stood and problem solved. But he was trying to be a better man now. He was trying hard.

“By the dead, though,” Dogman was saying. “Fighting against brown men, now, for the Union? How the bloody hell did that all happen? We shouldn’t be down here.”