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

Settle This Like Men

Leo wound the thong tight around his wrist, took a firm grip on the haft, then turned to the riders behind him, rain pattering on their armour and the wet coats of their mounts. He lifted his axe high.

‘For the Union!’ he bellowed, and there were nods and murmurs. ‘For the king!’ Not that anyone was too pleased with His August Majesty these days. ‘For Angland!’ Louder now, manly growls, angry calls, clenched gauntlets thumped on shields. ‘For your wives and your children!’ He put a hand on Jurand’s shoulder and stood in his stirrups, trying to make them all feel the same boiling anger, burning eagerness, seething joy he did. ‘For your honour and your pride!’ An answering cheer, smoking from helmets on the wet air, weapons thrust high. ‘For a piece of fucking vengeance!’ A furious roar now, hooves pawing at the mud, men crowding forward, straining to be released.

‘For Leo dan Brock!’ Glaward punched at the sky, huge as some knight of legend. ‘The Young Lion!’

That brought the loudest cheer of all, and Leo had to grin. The men found his name almost as inspiring as he did.

‘Forward!’ And he slapped down his visor and dug in his heels.

First at a walk, down the rutted track from the village, rain-pricked puddles shattered by his horse’s hooves. Barniva came level, and through the open face of his helmet Leo could see his eager smile, that fashionable war-weariness burned away in the fire of action. Leo smiled with him and urged his horse on. On, to the very point of the spear, where a leader belonged.

Now at a trot, Antaup bouncing up beside him couched low, Whitewater Jin on the other side, red beard jutting. The valley came up grey through the rain ahead, the stream and the two hills, bouncing with the movement of Leo’s horse. Between them the bridge, men crowding onto it from both sides under a tangle of spears.

His smile grew wider. Jurand was beside him, and there was nothing he couldn’t do. Finally, he was free of his shackles! He could take his fate in his own hands. Carve out a place in the legends. The way Harod the Great had done, or Casamir the Steadfast. The way the Bloody-Nine had done.

Now at a jolting canter, the thunder of hooves as the best men in Angland followed, charging into battle. A battle ill-suited to horsemen, though, it had to be admitted.

The Union forces were crumbling. They’d been forced back onto the near bank of the stream and now they were starting to break, battle-weary men running in panic, Carls screaming their war cries as they poured across the bridge.

Leo pounded heedless past the scattering Anglanders, fixed on one of the pursuing Northmen. As he saw Leo bearing down, his yellow grin became a circle of surprise. He turned, slipping and falling, hunter become prey. He was still scrambling up when Leo’s axe caught him between the shoulders and flung him on his face.

Leo gave a roar of triumph, heard Antaup’s shrill whoop over the hammering of hooves, over the wind through his visor. He swung at a Carl, missed as the man threw himself aside, leaned over his saddle to chop down another, sent him reeling into the mud.

Everything simple. No grinding worry, no chafing frustration, no wasted days slipping past. Only the beautiful, terrible now.

‘Forward!’ he roared, pointlessly. Where else can charging cavalry go? Some Northern horsemen had forced their way across the bridge and he spurred his horse towards them, riding down a fleeing Carl who bounced from his horse’s flank and was crushed under the hooves of Barniva’s.

He crashed into the midst of the shocked riders, his mount far bigger and better-trained than theirs, flinging them aside like a plough through loose soil. A lovely jolt up his arm as his axe glanced from a Northman’s helmet, making him reel in the saddle, thudded into his horse’s neck, spattering blood and making the beast totter sideways.

Leo twisted the other way, his helmet hot with his own breath as he snarled and spat and swore. He hacked at a shield, knocked it clear, hacked at the man who held it, ripped his shoulder open and hurled him from his saddle, blood and mail rings flying, hacked at the leg left caught in the stirrups and chopped a great gash in it.

A spear screeched down his shield and Leo caught the haft, wrestled with it, slobbering meaningless curses. He reared up in his saddle, brought his axe up and over in a great arc and smashed the spearman’s helmet right in with a hollow thud.

He swung sideways at a rider with silver rings in his beard, missed, got tangled with him, punched at him with his shield hand and snapped his head back. He lived for this! He lived for—

‘Gah!’ His axe was stuck in something. ‘Bah!’ Its bearded head caught in the straps of a saddle and it was pulling away, dragging him sideways. ‘Shit!’ He struggled to twist his hand from the loop of the axe but he’d made sure it was fast and he was dragged backwards, leg wrenched as his foot was ripped from the stirrup. He tumbled down, the world reeling, took a glancing blow on the helmet from a flailing hoof as a horse dropped beside him.

He rolled, groggy, helmet full of drool. He crawled onto all fours, shook his shield from his arm and fixed on the thong around his wrist, plucking at it, fingers clumsy in his gauntlets. Like trying to sew with mittens on. Something made his ears ring – or were they ringing already?

Suddenly his wrist tore free and he almost stumbled over backwards. The rider with the silver in his beard was lying just next to him, mace in his hand, one leg caught under his horse.

‘Bastard!’ he was snapping in Northern. ‘Bastard!’ He swatted at Leo with the mace but couldn’t hope to reach him. Leo stood, swaying. Mud showered him as a horse thundered past. He realised his hands were empty. Sword! Draw sword.

He pawed at the hilt, trying to shake the fuzz from his head. Faint scrape of steel as it slid from the scabbard. He stabbed at the rider, stumbled, missed, point of the sword sliding into the mud beside him.

‘Bastard!’ He hit Leo’s leg with his mace, but weakly. He hardly even felt it.

Leo was getting less dizzy. He aimed better this time, slid his sword through the man’s chest. He sat up and made a long fuffing sound. Fuff. All wheezy and clownish. Leo pulled his sword free and the rider fell back.

He wasn’t sure which way he was facing, world a dizzy mess through the slot in his skewed visor. Damn thing must’ve got bent when the horse kicked him. His head was throbbing. Felt like he could hardly breathe. He fumbled the buckle open, dragged his helmet halfway around before he could finally twist it off.

The chill wind hit his sweaty face like a slap and the world rushed at him, the roar of battle furiously loud.

‘Leo!’ Someone had him by the arm and he almost swung before he saw it was Barniva, unhorsed and mud-smeared. Dead horses everywhere. Dead men. Wounded men. Broken weapons. Leo wobbled down and clawed up a shield. A Carl’s round shield. Shoved his arm through the straps. A Northman was crawling through the mud with a broken spear sticking from his back. Leo chopped his head open.

‘Regroup!’ he roared, hardly knowing who he was shouting at, hardly sure if there was anyone left to regroup except him and Barniva. It didn’t matter. They could do it together. He could do it alone.

The rain was coming hard, fat drops pinging from his armour, soaking into the padding beneath, turning it to cold lead. ‘To the bridge!’ And he started to slog in the direction he thought it was, trusting that men were following. He’d retreated for long enough.

He caught sight of his standard. The white field, the golden lion. Hanging sodden at the near end of the bridge. And there was Stour Nightfall’s. The slavering wolf on grey. Drooping in the rain at the far end. A lion fought a wolf in a circle of blood, and the lion won.