A Little Hatred (The Age of Madness #1) - Joe Abercrombie Page 0,110

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.