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

Her pursuers slowed as they came close. Six of them, breathing hard from their run, sticks and clubs and torches in their clenched fists, and at the front the tall one swaggered forward, tall hat skewed at a rakish angle.

‘That’s far enough,’ said the big man. A calm voice, very deep, very slow. How could he be calm? How could anyone be calm ever again?

‘Nice wall you’ve built,’ said Tall Hat, sneer across a sweat-beaded, pockmarked face, his eyes wild, wide, burning with the reflected fire of his torch as he held it high.

‘Thanks,’ said the big man, ‘but I’ll ask you to admire it from a distance.’ He unhooked his lenses from his ears and ever so carefully folded them. ‘I’ll ask nicely.’ He rubbed at the bridge of his nose with finger and thumb. ‘But I’ll only ask once.’

‘Can’t.’ Tall Hat gave a big grin. ‘You’ve got something of ours.’

The big man pushed his folded lenses into Savine’s limp hand and gently curled her fingers shut around them. He sounded almost sad. ‘Believe me, there’s naught here you want.’

‘Give her up!’ barked Tall Hat, voice turned suddenly so sharp, Savine flinched at it.

The big man hopped down from the barricade and walked forward, not worried, not hurried. Savine could hardly understand what he was doing.

Tall Hat had his doubts, too. He raised his torch. ‘I’m not scared o’—’

The big man darted at him, caught the swinging torch on his shoulder and shrugged it off in a shower of sparks. His fist sank into Tall Hat’s side, a short, quick blow, but Savine heard the thud of it, felt the force of it. It folded Tall Hat over and left him tottering.

The big man took him by the coat and jerked him off his feet. Lifted him high, as if he was no more than a sack of rags, then flung him down on the cobbles so hard his hat bounced off.

He gave a shuddering groan, stretched out a quivering hand, and the big man calmly lifted his big boot and stomped his face into the road.

Savine stared, hardly breathing.

The big man looked up at Tall Hat’s companions, brushing a few embers from his shoulder. They stood in a shocked half-circle. Five men, but none of them had moved the whole time.

‘We can have him,’ said one, though he sounded far from certain. He licked his lips, took a hesitant step forward.

‘Ah.’ A second man had climbed up onto the barricade. Or maybe he’d been there all along, so still Savine hadn’t noticed. A stringy man with a drooping moustache. He held a loaded flatbow, something drawn on the back of the hand on the trigger. Tattooed. ‘ Ah , I said.’ He eased towards them, pointing the bow with more intent, head of the bolt gleaming. ‘Don’t you bastards understand fucking ah ?’

It seemed they did. They began to retreat. The one who’d worn the hat gave a faint gurgle. One of them dragged him up, head lolling, his face a mass of black blood.

‘Aye!’ shouted the stringy man, lowering his flatbow as they disappeared into the sweltering night. ‘And don’t come back!’ He wiped his sweaty forehead with his tattooed hand as his companion clambered back onto the barricade. ‘Damn it, Bull, this wasn’t part o’ the plan.’

Bull was an apt name for the big man. He frowned at Savine, and she cringed away until her back hit a wall. ‘Well,’ he said, wincing as he rubbed at his knuckles, ‘you know what happens to plans when the fighting starts.’

‘Fucking Burners!’ snarled the bowman, loosening his string and slipping out the bolt with a practised air. ‘Bastards have gone mad. Just want to burn everything!’

‘That’s why they call ’em Burners, Sarlby.’ There was a woman there, too. A girl with a tough, bony face, squatting down beside Savine, all business.

‘She hurt?’ asked Broad.

‘I think just scared, mostly.’ Savine felt her hand prised open, and the girl took the lenses out and offered them up. ‘Who could blame her for that?’ Savine realised who she was. The Vallimirs’ maid. What had been her name? Dinner on the hill felt like a thousand years ago. May. May Broad.

She put gentle fingertips on Savine’s cheek. ‘What’s your name?’ She didn’t recognise her. No surprise. Savine barely recognised herself.

‘Ardee,’ she whispered. Her mother’s name was the first she could think of, and she felt a burning pain building at the back of her nose, and gave a great snotty sob, and started to cry. She couldn’t remember the last time she cried. She wasn’t sure she ever had. ‘Thank you,’ she blubbered. ‘Thank you—’

The girl was frowning down at her chest and Savine realised her foul coat had fallen open. Ruined though it was, one of the bones poking from torn silk, there was no mistaking the quality of her corset. Only a fool could doubt this belonged to a very rich lady, with servants to get her into it. And one look in this girl’s sharp eyes told Savine she was no fool.

She opened her mouth. To blurt some story. Puke some lie. But all that came out was a stuttering croak. She had nothing left.

May’s eyes moved up from that ruined embroidery that had been a month of some poor woman’s labour. Then she calmly pulled the coat closed over it.

‘You’re safe now,’ she said. ‘I’ll take her inside.’ And she helped Savine to her feet, and towards a doorway. ‘Reckon she’s had quite a day.’

Savine clung to her and blubbed like a baby.

The Man of Action

The Steadfast Standard snapped majestically, such miraculous needlework that its white horse rampant seemed to rear upon the breeze against a sun of cloth-of-gold, the names of glorious Union victories glittering about its edge. The very flag under which Casamir the Steadfast had conquered Angland, now held perfectly straight in Corporal Tunny’s gnarled fist, martial prowess distilled into a square of cloth.

There was a rousing rattle of arms and armour as the men spun towards Orso, stomped down their left heels and saluted in perfect unison. Five hundred soldiers, moving as one, sun glinting from their freshly forged equipment. A mere tenth part of his newly raised expeditionary force, fully prepared to sail north and give Stour Nightfall a resounding kick up the arse.

Orso probably shouldn’t have said it himself, but it was quite a stirring spectacle.

He returned their salute with a flourish he had been perfecting in front of the mirror. He had to admit he liked wearing a uniform. It gave him the novel feeling of being a man of action . Furthermore, as well cut and starched as this one was, no casual observer could have suspected his paunch had been on the increase lately.

Colonel Forest grinned as he looked the soldiers over. That open, honest grin that seemed to represent the very best of the Union common man. Earthy, dependable, loyal. A stout yeoman if ever there was one, with his stocky build, and his pronounced facial scar, and his lustrous grey moustaches, and his campaign-worn fur hat.

‘As fine a body of fighting men as I ever saw, Your Highness,’ he said. ‘And I’ve seen a few.’

They had chosen to call themselves the Crown Prince’s Division. Well, Orso had let them choose the name and Forest had no doubt suggested it. Or more likely insisted on it. Even so, Orso was hugely pleased by the compliment. Perhaps because, for once, he felt he had done the slightest something towards deserving it.

‘What d’you think, Hildi?’ he asked.

‘Very shiny,’ she said. With characteristic enterprise, she had wangled an embroidered drummer-boy’s uniform to go with her battered cap and now looked quite the soldier. Why not? She had, after all, no less military experience than Orso.

‘What d’you think, Gorst?’ he asked.

‘A fine body of men, Your Highness.’ Orso had to stop himself wincing. However often one heard that piping voice, one never quite got comfortable with it. ‘You are to be congratulated.’