Джо Аберкромби - A Little Hatred - Book One (The Age of Madness)

She started back towards the wagon as Sibalt slid the door all the way open. Grise had already unlashed the tarp and dragged it away, the barrels showing underneath.

‘All right,’ hissed Vick at her, ‘let’s get that first one—’

Light flooded the yard and they all stood frozen, blinking in the glare. Hooded lanterns, suddenly opened all around them. Grise on the back of the wagon, rope in her hands. Moor with fingers hooked under the first barrel. Tallow holding the reins, his eyes bigger than ever. Sibalt in the wide doorway of the foundry.

That fast, their plans turned to shit.

‘Hold!’ bellowed a voice. ‘In the name of His Majesty!’

The big carthorse startled, dragged the wagon screeching forwards with its brake on. Grise tumbled over the side.

Moor stood, letting go of the barrel and snatching up a hatchet.

Tallow gave a high shriek. Not even a word.

There was a clicking, a fluttering. Bolts thudded into the wagon’s side. Thudded into Moor, too.

Vick was already running. She caught Sibalt and dragged him into the foundry. They wove between the engines, the wagons, the rails, as they whipped up from the firelit gloom. Sibalt gasped as he slipped and went bowling into some crates, lengths of metal scattering across the stones with a clash and clang.

She helped him up, nearly falling herself, pulled him on, her breath and his hissing and wheezing, their slapping footfalls echoing from the roof high above. She glanced back, saw lights twinkling, a flicker of movement, heard shouts in the darkness.

She gasped as something caught her head – a dangling chain, left swinging in her wake. A few more steps and Sibalt grabbed her by the elbow, dragged her down into a shadowy space between two great iron tanks. She was about to ask why when she saw the lights ahead. Heard the footsteps. They were closing in from both sides.

‘They were waiting,’ whispered Sibalt. ‘Knew we were coming.’

‘Who told ’em?’ hissed Vick.

There was something strange about his face in the half-light. She was used to seeing him weighed with worries, now he looked like his load had been lifted. Vick glanced down and saw he had a dagger in his fist, the orange of the furnaces glinting along its edge. She drew away a little on an instinct. ‘You don’t think it was me?’

‘No. But it doesn’t matter.’

She could hear Grise screaming somewhere. ‘Come on, you fuckers! Come on!’

‘You said it yourself,’ said Sibalt. ‘Once they get you, everyone talks. Sorry to leave you in the lurch like this.’

‘What are you saying?’ Her voice didn’t sound calm any more.

He smiled at her. That sad little smile. ‘Wish I’d met you sooner. Things might’ve been different. But the time comes … you have to stand up.’ And he rammed the dagger into his own neck.

‘No,’ she hissed. ‘No, no, no!’ She had her hands to his throat but it was ripped right open, blood welling black. Nothing she could do. Her hands were sticky to the elbows already. Her trousers soaked with blood as it spread in a great warm slick.

Sibalt stared up at her, spluttering black from his mouth, from his nose. Maybe he was trying to give her some message. Regret, or forgiveness, or hope, or blame. No way of knowing.

Grise’s screams had turned to meaningless screeches, then muffled gurgles. The sounds of someone with a bag forced over their head.

Sibalt’s eyes were glassy now, and Vick let go of his leaking neck. She sat back against iron still hot from the day’s work, her red hands dangling.

And that’s where she was when the Practicals found her.

Knowing the Arrow

Rikke crashed down the slope, trees and sky bouncing, all their careful plans flung away along with her cloak and her bow. That’s the trouble with plans. Not many survive being chased through a downpour by a pack of dogs. Wet brambles clutched at her ankle, snatched it from under her and she reeled, howl cut off as she smashed face-first into a tree, fell and rolled helpless through thorn bushes, over and over, yelping with every bounce and giving a long groan as she slid on her face through a heap of sodden leaves.

She looked up to see a big pair of boots. She looked up higher and saw a man standing in them, looking down with an expression more of puzzlement than triumph.

‘Quite the entrance,’ he said.

He wasn’t tall, but solid as a tree, great meaty gut, great meaty forearms, great meaty neck and jowls, thumbs tucked into a weathered sword-belt. He might’ve been the same height as Rikke, but easily twice her weight. One of his cheeks was all puckered with an old scar.

She spat out some bits of leaf and whispered, ‘Fuck.’

But instead of grabbing her around the throat, he just stepped back and bowed.

‘Please.’ And he offered her the way with one broad palm, like one of those fancy footmen in Ostenhorm might’ve done.

No time to wonder about the gift, only to grab it with both hands. ‘Thanks,’ she wheezed as she clambered up, mouth tasting of blood. Her soggy shirt was hopelessly snarled on the thorns and she wriggled free of it, lurching on winded in her vest.

Dogs barked behind and she snatched blurred glances over her shoulder, shadows dancing in the rain-lashed forest, sure at every jolting step their teeth would sink into her arse and bring her down. Someone was crashing through the woods ahead, she heard Isern shout, ‘Rikke? You there?’

‘Right …’ she gurgled, ‘behind you!’

Then light flashed between trunks, the trees opening up. She felt a giddy surge of relief which, as usual, soon turned to horror. They’d seen the scar through the woods from higher up and thought there must be a river. But through the curtains of rain, there’d been no way of knowing it was cut into a deep ravine.

She knew it now. A rocky edge, sprouting with sick grass, clung to by stunted little trees, beaten water thundering below. She saw Isern spring, arching back in the air, spear over her head. She saw her clear the gap, a daunting four strides wide at least, roll through the wet moss and ferns clinging to the far side and come smoothly to her feet.

For an instant, Rikke thought about stopping. Then she thought about getting fucked by Stour Nightfall’s horse and of a sudden, getting smashed to paste in the bottom of a gorge seemed a pretty fine outcome. Wasn’t like she could stop anyway, belting full-tilt down a steep and slippery bank. She pushed herself faster, chest heaving, teeth rattling, and trusted to luck, however bad her luck had been lately.

The ravine yawned wide as she burst from the trees, a glimpse of jagged rock dropping away to white water.

She got a firm footing at the edge, which was lucky, and a decent push off with her right leg, which was good, and she went up something lovely, wind cold in her wide-open mouth, flying into the flitting rain.

It was just that she started coming down too soon. Maybe if she’d eaten something that day, there’d have been more spring in her. But she hadn’t. She clawed at the air, like she might be able to drag herself closer, but she was dropping fast now and didn’t need the Long Eye to see she’d fall short.

The terrible justice of the ground. Sooner or later, everyone who jumps must meet it.

The slick rocks came hurtling at her.

‘Oh fu—’

Earth thudded into her stomach and drove all her wind out in a great spitty wheeze. She clutched desperately at wet leaves, wet roots, wet grass, no strength, no breath, dirt sprinkling in her eyes as she started sliding over the edge, fingernails uselessly scrabbling.

Then Isern’s hand clamped around her wrist. Isern’s face above her, screwed up with furious effort, scar white on her lips, tongue wedged into the hole in her clenched teeth. Rikke groaned as her shoulder stretched, feeling like her whole arm would rip from the socket.