A Little Hatred (The Age of Madness #1) - Joe Abercrombie Page 0,140

south side of the fortress to the north.

Now came the standard, black with the red circle. Bethod’s standard. Black Calder’s standard. Suddenly the treeline was alive with men.

Isern gave a sigh. ‘There’s the problem with looking for a fight.’ And she pulled the deerskin cover from the bright blade of her spear. ‘Sometimes you get more fight than you wanted.’

Seemed the Nail was smiling right at Rikke now. Just the way she’d known he would.

Without taking her eyes from the valley, Leo’s mother held up a finger. ‘Get the troops on their feet.’

Leo heard the calls of the officers spreading out across the back of the hill. The great scrape and rattle as the men stood, took up their weapons, began to form ranks.

The valley was flooded with Northmen now. Hundreds of them. Thousands. An iron plague, spreading steadily down the road towards the bridge. Leo felt utterly useless. All he could do was kneel in the dirt, the steadily thickening drizzle seeping through his armour, and watch.

‘The men are ready, Lady Finree,’ said an officer. ‘Should we advance?’

She shook her head. ‘Just a little longer, Captain. Just a little longer.’

The time stretched, slow, silent, unbearably tense. A bird hovered, high overhead, feathers ruffling in the wind, poised and ready to swoop.

‘Knowing the right moment.’ Her eyes flickered over the disorganised fighting at the bridge, across the columns of Northmen in the valley, up to the farm, and back. ‘My father always told me that was half a general’s job.’

‘The other half?’ asked Leo.

‘Looking like you know the right moment.’ And she stood up tall and slapped the dirt from the knees of her skirt. ‘Ritter?’ A freckled little boy stepped up with a bugle clenched tight in one fist.

‘Your Grace?’

‘Sound the advance.’

It rang out over the valley, piercingly loud, and there was an almighty clattering as several thousand armoured men began to march.

‘Shit,’ said Wonderful, frowning at the red hill.

Clover felt that familiar sinking feeling as he followed her eyes. That feeling he’d got at least once in every battle he’d ever fought in. Spear tips showed over the brow, against the spitting sky, then helmets, then men. Ranks and ranks of men. Union foot, well armed and organised and coming down from the high ground on their flank.

They didn’t seem to trouble the Great Wolf any. Quite the reverse. ‘Lovely,’ he purred, grinning like an eager groom watching his bride shown in. ‘Fucking beautiful. Form a shield wall facing that fell and we’ll get to grips with these Union bastards.’

‘Lovely? We don’t know where the Dogman is!’ Clover pointed up towards the ruined fortress with a stabbing finger. Even his old eyes could pick out figures on the roof of that tower. ‘What if there’s men up there? We’ll be showing ’em our bare arses!’

‘I guess.’ Stour looked back to the bridge, in no hurry. It was a right mess down there now, corpses scattered, arrows flitting, spears tangled, men struggling in the water, even. Stour tapped a finger against his pursed lips as he watched, like a cook judging whether to toss a pinch more salt in the pot, rather’n a War Chief sending men to their deaths. But maybe that’s just the kind o’ carelessness with other men’s lives a general needs. ‘Bring everyone up. I think I’ll have that bridge.’

Wonderful looked stunned, and well she might’ve. ‘You’re playing their bloody game!’ she said. ‘It’s a fucking trap!’

Stour’s wet eyes rolled towards her. ‘’Course it is, but who’s caught in it?’

‘We are,’ snapped Clover, ‘and tripping over our cocks on the way. What’ll your father say to this?’

‘He’ll be fucking delighted.’ The wolf-grin spread across Stour’s face. ‘The whole thing was his idea.’

Clover blinked. ‘What?’

Stour nodded towards the old fortress. ‘He’s on the other side o’ that hill, ready to attack. These fools think they’ll catch us with our trousers down.’ He leaned close to Clover. ‘But it’s us who’ll catch them. Come on, you old bastards!’ And he drew his sword, spun it around in his fingers lightly as an eating knife. ‘We’ve a fucking battle to win!’

Rikke never saw a battle before, and she hoped she never saw another.

Black Calder’s men pressed in on every side. The tumbledown wall had become a mass of straining men, a great tangle of shields and clattering, sliding, stabbing spears. One had a flag on it that had got all wrapped around a Carl’s arm, and he was shrieking with fury as he tried to drag it free